


Trick or Treat

by Wildrook



Series: Tender Mercies [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildrook/pseuds/Wildrook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is looking forward to celebrating Halloween with his friends at Lydia’s awesome party, but of course rumors of a haunting at the local abandoned insane asylum force a slight change of plans.  Oh well, Stiles wanted to spend his Halloween in the middle of a horror movie with his favorite creeperwolf anyway.  Not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU set after season two. None of the alpha/darach stuff ever happened, so there are none of the departures, deaths or kooky werewolf aging issues of season three. But that doesn't mean I won't pull in and repurpose characters, concepts, and dialogue from season three in the course of this series.

*****

_Thomas ran down the dark hallway, frantically rattling every door he passed, hoping that it would offer him some sort of escape, but each remained stubbornly locked.  He was gasping for breath, fear and exhaustion pushing him to the brink of collapse.  He didn’t know how long he’d been running, how long he’d been trapped in this hellhole, but he knew that if he didn’t find a way out soon, she would get him just like she’d already gotten his friends._

_“Thomas,” a soft voice sing-songed from down the hall.  The teenager looked back, his eyes wide with terror.  He shook the next door knob, his eyes still fixed behind him, and was startled when the door swung open beneath his hand.  Gratefully he dove inside, slamming the door shut as soon as he was in the room and sliding home the bolt he found on the other side.  Then he moved as far from the door as possible, crawling under a narrow cot that was on the opposite side of the room._

_“Thomas,” the haunting voice came again, and the boy slapped his hands over his mouth to muffle a frightened sob.  He closed his eyes and struggled desperately to remain silent in the vain hope that he would go unnoticed.  Oh God, he really hoped that this was one big drug-induced hallucination, but he was pretty sure the pills he and his friends had been popping had worn off way back at the beginning of this nightmare._

_The sound of the doorknob rattling made Thomas’ eyes shoot open.  To his relief, the door remained closed and the rattling stopped.  Maybe he was safe._

_Then came the screech of metal as the bolt slid suddenly back.  Thomas jumped at the noise and hit his head into the bed frame._

_The door swung open and the softly glowing figure of a woman stood framed in the entrance.  She was young, and had maybe once been pretty, but now her hair hung in greasy tangles around her face, dark circles ringed her eyes, and blackened teeth filled her mouth.  She wore a ragged, dirty, white sack of a dress and her feet were bare.  Around her neck was an angry, black bruise, and in her hand she held a scalpel, shining sinisterly in the light she emitted.  Thomas could see the door across the hallway clearly through her thin, transparent form._

_She smiled at him, a mad, gleeful expression.  “You found my room, Thomas!” she told him as she stepped into the room and reached toward the teenager.  Her face morphed suddenly, lips stretching wide to display a mouth full of sharp fangs.  “Let’s play!” she hissed.  The door slammed shut behind her, rattling the rusted metal numbers Thomas had missed when he so hurriedly pushed inside; 313.  A second later the boy’s screams echoed down the empty hallway._

_***_

_“Alright, Anderson, summarize,” Officer Morgan kept his eyes fixed ahead as they turned onto the road leading to the Sanatorium.  Beside him, the rookie he was training flipped back through his small notebook to review the facts Morgan had just rattled off to him.  The seasoned officer resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  Damn kids.  Morgan couldn’t wait for retirement._

_“Uh,” Anderson had apparently found his place.  “A passerby reported a group of teenagers acting strangely outside the old abandoned sanatorium.  We’re supposed to check it out.  The area is known to attract delinquents and squatters, so we’re probably looking at vandals or maybe drug users.  But we should be prepared for anything-”_

_“Damn straight, be prepared for anything,” Morgan interrupted.  “This town gets weirder by the day, kid.”  They pulled up to the gate of the property, and the older cop frowned as the headlights illuminated several figures on the ground at the foot of the fence.  “Just stay on alert, alright?”  His eyes flickered to the dark building whose outline was barely discernible against the night sky.  Could the place be any creepier?  Why the hell did these damn kids think it was such a fun idea to hang out here?_

_As the two officers drew nearer they could make out five teenagers, boys and girls, sprawled around the gate.  Some of the kids seemed to be unconscious, others were muttering softly to themselves._

_Morgan approached the nearest, a boy sitting with his knees drawn up before him.  His head hung down as he rocked slowly forward and back._

_“Hey, what are guys doing?” Morgan barked with all the authority of his many years on the force.  “It’s late; you should be at home.”_

_The boy looked up slowly, and Anderson cursed, taking a step back.  The boy’s eyes were wide and blank as they stared up at the officers, unseeing.  Bloody marks ran down his cheeks, as if someone had dragged their nails down his skin.  “She took my eyes,” the boy said in a strange voice.  “Molly took my eyes,” he raised his hands to his cheeks, touching just below his staring eyes, then suddenly dug his nails into his flesh.  “Took Thomas’ eyes and hid them away, all cause she said she wanted to play!” he cackled.  Blood began to drip down his face again.  “Can you help me find my eyes?”_

_“Jesus,” Morgan breathed, lunging forward to grab the laughing teen’s hands and stop him from causing further damage.  “Anderson, call for an ambulance and back-up.  I don’t know what these kids are on, but we need help!”  As the rookie hurried back to the patrol car, Morgan found his eyes drawn again to the looming Sanatorium.  “Fucking Beacon Hills,” he muttered staring at the ominous building.  “Just make it though Halloween, Morgan, and then it’s sweet retirement and time to get as far away from this fucking town as possible.”_

*****

            “Trick or treat!” Stiles sang out gleefully as the loft door opened.  Almost immediately his grin darkened into a scowl when he realized who stood at the entrance.

            “What the hell are you supposed to be?” Peter drawled, a brow arched snidely as he leaned against the door frame and looked the boy over critically.

            “A werewolf.  Obviously,” the teen answered huffily, gesturing with his hands to indicate the fuzzy ears that were sprouting from the top of his head and the artfully ragged, blood-stained clothes he wore.  “What the hell is _he_ doing here?” he called out over Peter’s shoulder as he pushed past the werewolf to enter Derek’s loft.

            The sight that greeted him was _not_ reassuring.  Derek, Scott, and Isaac stood huddled around the table by the windows, intensely scrutinizing the papers that were scattered across its surface.  Suddenly Stiles was getting the bad feeling that his Halloween was about to take a far more realistically creepy turn than he had hoped.

            At the sound of the door closing behind him, Stiles glanced back, abruptly remembering that he probably shouldn’t turn his back on a psychopath.  Peter was innocently walking toward the little assembly, but the man’s eyes were not-so-innocently fixed on the teen’s ass.  For a second, Stiles’ heart sped up before he remembered that his costume also included a furry tail that had apparently drawn Peter’s attention.  Probably in answer to the slight hiccup that Stiles’ heartbeat had made, the werewolf’s eyes flickered up from their scrutiny to meet the boy’s own.  Peter smiled leeringly.  The teen glared then turned sharply away.  Trust Peter Hale to turn a perfectly standard costume into something suggestive, and no, Stiles was not going to get excited or rise to the bait.  He’d recently come to the conclusion that he couldn’t possibly be attracted to the older man, because Peter Hale was a jerky … jerkface.

            This conclusion was the result of the “training” he’d experienced from the man over the last month and a half.  Contrary to his initial fears, there had been very little of the expected sexual harassment (much to his disappointment… wait, he meant delight, definitely delight).  But there _had_ been plenty of pain.  Stiles couldn’t begin to count the number of times he had ended up on his ass or dead from exhaustion after a bout with Peter – the man was merciless.  And sure Argent and Derek pushed him just as hard, but neither of them actually seemed to _enjoy_ it the way Peter did.  And no, it absolutely did not matter that Stiles was in the best physical shape of his life, that he was able to keep up on a lacrosse team comprised largely of players with superhuman abilities (to the point that Coach had made him a permanent member of the first-line), or that he no longer had any reason to feel insecure (not that he ever had) in the locker room surrounded by the legion of supermodels that were his friends.  Not that Stiles was anywhere near supermodel material now, but he had _abs_ people!  Well, he had them when he took a deep breath anyway.  But, no.  Nope.  None of that meant that he forgave the psychopath for the bruises, both physical and to his pride, that he’d suffered over the last weeks.

            “Hanging out with teenagers because he has no life?” Derek suddenly suggested, startling Stiles from his thoughts.  It took the teen a moment to refocus and work out that the alpha was answering his question about Peter’s presence.

            “Ouch.”  Peter placed a hand over his heart as if the words wounded.  “This coming from the twenty-something who created an entire pack from those same teens.”  Derek answered with a rude gesture.  “And if you recall, I’d be out living my life, is _you_ hadn’t called _me_.  I’m doing this as a favor.”

            “Aka, you were bored,” Derek muttered. 

            Peter ignored him and continued, directing his words at Stiles.  “What’s Scott supposed to be then?”

            “Werewolf victim,” Stiles answered off hand, glancing at his friend’s gruesome costume.  Scott had done pretty well with the slashed and bloody clothes.  And the fancy latex claw-wounds and mauled throat were nicely over the top.  But none of that was important right now; Peter’s response to Derek seemed to be confirming Stiles’ worst fears.  “Do _not_ tell me we have to deal with some supernatural spook on Halloween!” he exclaimed in outrage.

            “Okay,” the alpha replied shortly.

            Stiles waited for a few long seconds, and when the younger Hale remained silent he sighed.  “There’s a supernatural spook we have to deal with, isn’t there?”

            Not deigning to look up at him, Derek answered, “Well, since you ask… yes.”

            Peter gave his nephew a delighted grin.  “You know, you give me hope sometimes.”   Derek repeated his rude gesture.  Ignoring this and glancing at Stiles instead, Peter asked in another aside, “What about Isaac?”

            “Werewolf hunter,” was the succinct reply.

            Peter’s brows slowly rose and he turned an unreadable gaze on the teen in question.  Isaac was clad completely in black, he wore a leather jacket and combat boots, and a toy crossbow hung from his belt.  When he noticed Peter’s stare, he raised his hands as if to disavow himself of wrongdoing.  “It was Stiles’ idea,” he said defensively.

            When Peter’s cool blue eyes transferred their kinda-terrifying gaze to Stiles the teen glared back defiantly, and he absolutely did not take a step away from the man.  “Come on, it’s all role reversals.  It’s funny.”

            “Ah,” came the doubtful reply.  Peter surveyed their costumes again.  “Scott’s actually been a werewolf victim,” he said as if pointing out the flaw in that logic.

            Scott shot a swift, cold glare at the man.  “I’ve also been a werewolf hunter,” he reminded him.

            “Oooh, burn.  Get it … burn?  Cause you did?  Twice,” Stiles crowed, grinning at the creeper.  He quickly took a few more steps away from Peter as the man turned a highly unimpressed look his way.  “We can’t deal with any creepy critters today,” the teen hurriedly deflected, returning to the real issue at hand.  “It’s Halloween!  We’re going to Lydia’s party.  Do you know how long I’ve waited to go to a Lydia Martin Halloween party?  There’s bobbing for apples, and scantily clad girls, and candy, and did I mention the scantily clad girls?  Everybody else is already there.  _We_ are supposed to be leaving to join them.  Right now.”  Stiles had just _known_ that it would be a bad idea to meet at Derek’s before the party.  Yeah, so it had been _his_ bad idea – one last-ditch attempt to convince the antisocial alpha to join in on the revelry – but he blamed Scott and Isaac for agreeing with him.

            “Nobody’s stopping you,” Derek told him.  “You can go ahead.  We’ll handle this.”

            Stiles scowled.  Oh no, they were not pulling that whole “leave Stiles behind” bullshit again.  “And ruin the costume theme we had planned?” he quipped.  “I don’t think so.  It’s all or nothing.”  He sighed.  “What’ve we got?”

            “Did you hear anything from your dad recently about the Beacon Hills Sanatorium?” Scott asked.  The Sanatorium was an old, decades-abandoned insane asylum a few blocks from Beacon Hills Memorial.  It had been a favorite spot of homeless people, delinquents, and the occasional group of teenagers fulfilling dares for as long as Stiles could remember.  There was also a thoroughly unfounded rumor that the place was haunted by the tortured spirits of former patients, a ridiculous story considering the Sanatorium had been noted as one of the most humane in the country and its closing had far more to do with budget cuts than nefarious practices.

            Stiles dredged his memory.  Honestly, he’d been a little too exhausted recently to keep up with his dad’s case files.  He’d figured that anything truly horrific would stand out anyway.  Apparently he needed to start paying more attention again.  “Just something about finding some stoners outside the building who needed to be taken to the hospital,” he finally came up with.

            Scott nodded.  “Yeah, my mom dealt with them.  She said they were out of their minds, like institutional-level crazy.  And they kept babbling about ghosts.”

            “Ghosts?  Seriously?”  His lips twitched and he looked around incredulously, half-expecting to see the others burst into laughter.  “So we’re ruining Halloween because a bunch of potheads ODed and thought they saw some ghosts in a creepy abandoned building?”

            “No,” Derek answered with a glare.  “We’re looking into it, because those potheads are the latest in more than a half-dozen similar incidents in the surrounding area.”

            “Come on, I’d have heard something about that from my dad,” Stiles challenged.

            Peter shrugged.  “Most of them were probably dismissed because they were homeless people who were already known to have mental issues.”

            “See!”

            “But,” Derek overrode him, “I don’t think the group of honor students from the junior high who have been in the psych ward at Beacon General since last week fit that stereotype, do you?”

            Stiles shut up.

            “When this last group came in, my mom heard about the other incidents from another nurse and put two and two together,” Scott explained.  “It seems worth checking out before someone else gets hurt.”

            God damn it!  Stiles hated when Scott gave him the sad puppy-dog eyes – they always made him feel like he needed to go rescue kittens from trees, or donate to a local charity, or something equally noble.  He was screwed – goodbye Halloween.  “So how do we deal with ghosts?” he sighed.  Scott flashed him a grateful smile.

            “We don’t,” Peter answered.  “This is just reconnaissance; that’s why we’re not bothering the others.  Once we know for sure that there’s a ghost, we’ll call Deaton in.  That’s more his area of expertise.”

            “Veterinarians handle ghosts?” Stiles asked.  He knew Deaton was the master of weird knowledge, but what exactly made the man more qualified to deal with ghosts than a werewolf?  Maybe he could finally get some answers on Deaton’s mysterious background.  He’d only been asking Derek and Scott for the last year after all.  By this time he was pretty sure that neither of them had a clue.

            “No,” Peter told him, “but emissaries do.”  At the matching expressions of confusion on Stiles’, Scott’s, and Isaac’s faces, and the slight twitch from Derek, the older werewolf sighed in exasperation.  “You didn’t know he was an emissary,” he said to the alpha.

            “I suspected,” Derek replied defensively.

            “But you didn’t _know_.  And you let the man negotiate the treaty with the Argents?”

            “ _I suspected_ ,” Derek growled again.  “I remembered he was a friend of my mother’s and I was willing to wait until he was ready to share that information.  In the meantime, I trusted him as an _ally_ who was as interested in peace as I was.”

            Peter expressed his opinion of this sentiment with a roll of his eyes.

            Isaac raised a hand, interrupting the bickering between nephew and uncle.  “Umm.  So what’s an emissary?”

            Peter sighed again.  “What do you know about druids?” he asked.

            Fifteen minutes later they’d been given a hurried overview of druids, emissaries, and their role in pack dynamics.  Well, Stiles thought, _that_ certainly explained a lot about the mysterious vet.

            “So if Deaton is the master of all the magical mojo,” the teen questioned, “why aren’t we just handing this off to him and going on to Lydia’s party?”  Hey, Stiles was nothing if not persistent in his desires.

            “Did you listen to a word I said?” Peter asked in annoyance.  “Druids are all about maintaining the balance.  They serve as advisors and allies.  They rarely get directly involved, and they definitely don’t jump at every rumor of supernatural weirdness.  We need to be sure that it’s actually a ghost – something which disrupts the balance of its surroundings by its very nature.  Once we’ve confirmed that, _then_ we can ask Deaton to look into it.”  He gave the three teens an assessing look.  “I think we need to add some supernatural lore to the training schedule – you’re all woefully lacking in knowledge.”  Stiles wasn’t the only one who shifted uncomfortably at that threat; Scott and Isaac looked distinctly uneager.  On the rare occasions that Peter decided to teach the young beta wolves, there was usually a dramatic increase in the number of broken bones.  Apparently he felt the wolves’ healing abilities entitled him to go a little harder on them than he did on Stiles.  If that was how the physical training went, they all shuddered to think how scholarly training with the older wolf might go.

            “So what’s the plan?” Stiles hurriedly changed the subject.

            “My mom was able to get copies of the building’s blueprints from the hospital archives.”  Scott jumped on the diversion with relief and pointed to the sheets spread across the table.  “She said that the best she could get from the victims, before they all started screaming unintelligibly, was something about room 313.”  Scott tapped a square on one of the blueprints.

            “Room 313?” Stiles asked.  “Isn’t that the room that supposedly housed ‘Mad Molly’?”

            “Yeah.”  Isaac nodded, his face set in thought as he tried to recall the old story.  “I think you’re right!”  Scott too was nodding with growing certainty. 

            When Derek and Peter only looked confused, Stiles rolled his eyes.  “It’s a stupid story about a patient who was, like, criminally insane.  She supposedly gouged out a bunch of orderlies’ and nurses’ eyes or something before hanging herself in her room - 313.  It’s complete bullshit, of course.  I checked the police records when I was 11, no deaths or reports of serious violence ever occurred in that building.”

            Peter gave him a knowing smirk.  “What an odd thing to look into at such a young age.  Unless…did someone maybe tell you some ghost stories and give you nightmares, Stiles?”

            The teen felt his face heat up.  “Shut up,” he snarled.  “The point is, 313 is the room at the center of half the stories about that place, but _nothing_ actually happened there.”

            “Well, something’s happening now,” Derek said.  “And the sooner we find out what, the sooner you can get to your party.  Bring the blueprints,” he told Scott.  “Stiles, you’re driving.”

            “Aww man,” the teen grumbled.  “Why do we always take _my_ car to the creepy places?”

            “Because if we have to ram something or drive over something, we’d rather it be with your piece of crap Jeep and not one of our new cars.  Obviously,” Peter told him, his blue eyes dancing.  Stiles glared.

            “I’ll take my motorcycle,” Scott volunteered.

            “Thanks buddy.”  Not that that was going to do much more than cut down on the cramped quarters in the Jeep, but it was the thought that counted.

            They trooped from the loft.  Somehow Stiles ended up near the back of their ragged line, with Peter bringing up the rear.  Because the teen was keeping a wary watch on the man from the corner of his eye (and definitely _not_ admiring him in his sweet leather jacket), Stiles realized that Peter was once more staring at his ass … no, his tail.  Feeling suddenly mischievous, Stiles slid a hand to the wire threaded along the top of his pants and gave it a twist.  The tail swished.  Peter stopped dead and blinked at the unexpected movement.  Suddenly his eyes flickered up to lock with Stiles’ and they flared a brilliant, electric blue.  Whoops.

            Stiles quickly looked away and hurried to catch up to Scott and the others.  He wasn’t quite sure what he’d just done, but he sure as heck wasn’t sticking around to find out.  He planned to put as much distance between himself and the creeper as possible.  Of course, as they piled into his Jeep, Peter somehow ended up sitting in the passenger seat _next_ to Stiles.  How the heck had he managed that when Mr. Alpha-Derek was riding with them and didn’t look particularly pleased to be sitting in the back?  Stiles gave the wolf a hard look, and Peter simply smiled enigmatically and started fiddling with Stiles’ radio until Derek barked at him to stop.

            When they pulled up in front of the Sanatorium twenty minutes later, all thoughts of the distracting werewolf beside him fled from Stiles’ mind, replaced by a sensation of dread at the sight of the oppressive building looming ahead.  It had been a bit of a mishmash building even in its heyday, part brick and mortar from the turn of the century, part concrete slab from the fifties.  Now all of it was cracked and deteriorated, the windows shattered and gaping like hungry mouths, the paint peeling in ragged strips, and the metal rusting in bloody streaks.  The sun setting behind it had already plunged the building’s front into deep, ominous shadows.  It was totally something straight out of a horror movie.

            “Okaaay,” Stiles drawled as he climbed from the Jeep and stared at the crumbling structure.  “That is way creepier than I remember.”  He could suddenly believe that ghosts haunted the echoing halls within and he shook his head to dislodge the stupid image from his mind.  Beside him Scott and Isaac nodded nervously in agreement, Derek gave the building an assessing look, and Peter just seemed bored.

            “Alright!”  Stiles suddenly clapped his hands, making Scott and Isaac jump.  He grinned in the face of their glares and reached back into his Jeep to haul a duffel bag from under his seat.

“If we’re going to do this, then everybody needs to follow the rules.”

            “Rules?” Scott asked as they cautiously approached the chained gate restricting access to the property. 

            As Derek raised a clawed hand to deal with the chain, Peter abruptly caught his wrist.  In response to the alpha’s glare, the elder Hale gestured to the chain link fence beside the gate.  “Why not use the entrance that others have already made and avoid attracting the attention of, oh, I don’t know, a passing police patrol?”  The edge of the fence was curled up and with a slight push they were able to move a section wide enough for each of them to slip through easily.

            “Yeah,” Stiles finally answered Scott after they were through the fence and making their way to the front of the building. “Horror movie rules.”  He gazed around at their blank faces and sighed.  “Come on, guys, the things to never, ever do if you want to make it to the end of the movie?”   The others still seemed confused, except for Peter who was smirking at him.  Of course _he’d_ get it.  The man _was_ a horror movie. 

            They climbed the stairs to the main entrance, finding the door ominously ajar.  Derek cautiously pushed it open and peered into the inky blackness before gesturing for them to follow him in.  They stood for a moment in the silent dark, holding their breaths and listening for the slightest indication that they weren’t alone in the building.

            Suddenly light sliced through the shadows, revealing a dirty, cracked hallway disappearing into the bowls of the Sanatorium.  The others turned to glare at Stiles.  “What?” he asked indignantly, shining his flashlight at them.  “ _I_ don’t see in the dark.”  The others sighed in resignation and started off down the hall, Scott squinting at the blueprints as he directed their course.

            “So, what sort of rules are we talking about?” Isaac suddenly asked after ten minutes of quiet, slow, nerve-racking travel through the halls.  At the incredulous looks from everyone except Stiles, he shrugged.  “You know, just in case.”

            “Ignore them, padawan.  You are wise to seek knowledge,” Stiles proclaimed haughtily.  In a more offhand tone, he continued, “The rules are things like, don’t investigate that strange noise in the dark basement or attic, or you’ll probably die.  Don’t say ‘Who’s there?’ or ‘I’ll be right back’, or you’ll probably die.  Don’t do drugs or have sex, or you’ll probably die.”  Sometimes his mouth said things before his brain could think the better of it.

            Peter grinned.  “Well at least _you’ll_ be safe then.”

            Stiles glared, hoping the dark hid his blush, though he doubted it from the smug look on Peter’s face.  “Don’t be _the jerk_ ,” he snarled, “or you’ll die.”  No “probably” involved this time.

            “Don’t be the smartass,” Peter answered back, a disturbing twinkle in his eyes, “or you’ll die.”  He looked Stiles over, then added, “Or don’t wear plaid; you’ll definitely die.”

            Stiles resisted the urge to snarl at the older werewolf.  He grumpily adjusted the ragged plaid shirt he wore over his “blood-stained” white T-shirt, and caught Isaac glancing between him and Peter with a very odd look on his face.  “What?” he growled.  Isaac shook his head and remained silent.  Derek and Scott were both too focused on navigating to pay much attention to the snarking conversation, for which Stiles was unusually grateful, though a little back-up from his bro might have been useful. 

            Stiles decided to press on with the rules; after all, ignoring Peter really was the best policy.  “Most importantly,” he said, purposely looking away from the dancing blue eyes at his side, “never, ever, under any circumstances-”  His flashlight went out abruptly, plunging the hallway into a blackness darker than night.  A second later Stiles’ light flickered back to life. “…split up,” Stiles finished, staring around the shadowed corridor in which he now stood utterly and completely alone.  “Fuck.”


	2. Chapter 2

            “Scott?” Stiles whispered sweeping his flashlight from side to side as he crept along the hallway.  “Derek?  Isaac?”  He figured the wolves would be able to hear him even at a whisper; he just hoped the same couldn’t be said of whatever had caused their separation.  “Peter?” he added, growing desperate. 

            He didn’t think it had been more than a few minutes since the lights had gone out, but it was difficult to tell time in the never-ending hallways of darkness.  To make matters even worse, the teen had absolutely no idea where he was.  Unable to find any signs of his friends’ movements, not even footprints in the dust on the floor, Stiles had tried to backtrack to the entrance.  He’d figured that a strategic withdrawal would give him space to reevaluate the situation and maybe he’d even meet up with any of the others who tried to do the same.  Unfortunately this plan had failed.  As far as Stiles could determine, the entrance, his only known exit, no longer existed.  Nor apparently did any of the rooms behind the many doors that lined the hallway, since every time Stiles tried to open one of them he found it locked or found that it opened onto yet more hallway.  And of course his phone wasn’t working, so he couldn’t call any of the others or even try to get back-up from the rest of the pack who were even now enjoying Lydia’s awesome Halloween party far away from all this crap.  Yeah, something was definitely wrong with his life.  How the hell had he let himself get talked into the middle of a horror movie scenario on fucking Halloween?

            Well there was no point in sitting still and waiting for the ghost or monster or whatever to come after him – he might as well try to find the others.  So here he was creeping down the hallway, one hand holding a totally-not-shaking-flashlight, the other plunged into his duffel bag, ready to defend himself at a moment’s notice.

            “Come on,” Stiles muttered in frustration, growing tired of the endless hallway, “Somebody answer me.”  It was probably the wrong thing to say.

            “Stiles.”

            Stiles gave a very manly shriek as a female voice spoke his name behind him, and he whirled around sharply.  “Who’s there?” slipped from his mouth before he slapped a hand over it in horror.  _What_ had he just said?  Before he had time to really start to panic, a soft glow began to fill the hallway before him.

            A human shape started to coalesce from the empty air, and as the figure of a woman became discernible, Stiles felt his jaw drop.  When the woman was finally a whole, if still mostly transparent, figure, she smiled sweetly at him and said, “Hello, baby.”

            Stiles stared, feeling his breath flee from him as though he were on the verge of a panic attack.  After several false starts he finally gasped out, “Mom?”

            Her smile grew, dimpling her cheeks just as he remembered.  “Oh, Stiles, I’ve missed you.”  _Everything_ was as he remembered, from the dark hair and the amber eyes, to the upturned nose and the expressive face.  All the things she had passed on to him, the things that sometimes made his dad smile and sometimes made him tear up when he looked at Stiles, because they reminded him so much of _her_.

            “Mom?” he asked again, his brain stuttering to process what he was seeing.  It had been eight years since Stiles had last seen his mom, almost nine since he’d seen her hale and healthy before the cancer had visibly begun to eat away at her.  But his memory of her was seared into his mind, so clear and pure that sometimes he still woke up in the morning and expected to hear her calling him to get ready for school, as if the years without her were nothing but a passing nightmare that her voice would chase away.  But the fantasy always shattered, destroyed by cruel reality, and Stiles always knew the moment after waking that she was really gone.

            Well here he was, wide awake, and she was standing right in front of him.

            “Mom?”  He seemed stuck on that one word.  He tried again.  “How…?  Why…?  I don’t understand.”  He didn’t think he’d felt this helpless since the day he’d sat alone in the hospital and watched her slip away while he’d whispered to her to wait (just wait until dad came, wait until tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, just please don’t leave).

            “Shhh, baby,” she hushed him, drifting closer.  Stiles felt paralyzed, incapable of either going to her or backing away.  “It’s alright, Stiles.  Everything is going to be alright.  I’m here now.”

            “But _how_?” Stiles asked, his breath hitching.  “How are you here?  Why are you in this place?”  These were important questions, he knew that, but the reason for their importance was already fading as he asked them.

            Her smile was so beautiful.  “I’ve been waiting so long to see you, baby,” she told him as she drew closer.  “I’ve missed you so much.”

            He could feel tears rolling slowly down his cheeks.  He couldn’t even move to wipe them away; his entire being was focused on the woman gliding toward him.  “I’ve missed you too, Mom,” he whispered.

            “And even though it’s your fault,” her voice was kind and gentle, “I’m not angry.”

            Stiles blinked, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut.  “W-what?”

            “Even though you killed me, Stiles, I’m not angry.”  Her expression was earnest and so sad.

            “I-I didn’t…” he was having trouble breathing again.  Everything hurt; he felt like he was shattering.

            “Oh, baby, you know that’s not true,” there was disappointment, a gentle reprimand in her tone, as if she was scolding him for lying about a grade on a test.  “You’ve always known it was your fault.”  She was so very close to him now, he could simply reach out to touch her if only he had the courage.  If only he was worthy of her.  “Admit it, Stiles.  Admit that you killed me and it’ll all be alright.  We can be together again.”  It was a promise he’d been waiting so long to hear, his heart ached in his chest at the words.

            “I…” his voice cracked.

            “You killed me, just like you’re killing your father.”  Stiles choked off a sob, and she smiled sadly at him and reached out a hand, laying it against his cheek.  The coldness of her skin seemed to pull the warmth from him.  He thought he saw her translucent form solidify slightly before him, becoming more real, more _there_.  “Stiles, if you love me, you’ll admit it.  Admit that you killed me.  Don’t be selfish.”  The tears were streaming down Stiles’ face now and his breath was labored.  “It comes down to whether you love me or you love yourself more,” she told him simply.  “If you love me you know what you have to do.  Who do you love more?”

            “You…”  Stiles closed his eyes.  When he opened them again they were bright but hard; the tears had stopped flowing.  “…are not my mom.  Eat rock salt, bitch,” he snarled, dropping his flashlight and pulling Peter’s shotgun from his duffle where he’d kept his hand since he’d first been separated from his friends.  Without a second’s hesitation he brought the gun to his shoulder and fired a shot into the thing that had stolen the shape of his mother.  The blast from the gun was deafening in the silence of the dark hallway, and its effect was instant.  Stiles had only the swift impression of his mother’s face twisted into something ugly and hissing with a mouth full of fangs before the transparent form disintegrated in a swirl of ash and embers.

            Stiles stood shaking for long minutes in the black hallway, his breath gasping from him as if he’d just run a marathon.  Then, with angry motions, he scrubbed the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand before bending to retrieve his flashlight.  He briefly clamped the handle of the light between his teeth so that he could have his hands free and still see to reload the shotgun.  Thank god he’d brought the weapon into the god damn building, thank god he’d actually let Peter talk him into learning how to use it, and thank fricking god he’d decided to give the rock salt a shot first.  “Rock salt really works on ghosts – another win to the Winchesters,” the teen muttered around his light as he took out the other types of shells from the magazine and replaced them with the rest of his salt shells, then started down the hall again.

            Stiles was pissed.  He couldn’t remember ever being this angry.  Bad enough that all this supernatural shit kept trying to kill him and his friends, now it had fucking impersonated his mom?  He was going to kick ass if he came across this fucking Casper again.  He was definitely over this little adventure.  Now, where the hell were the others?  He _needed_ to find them _immediately_.

            As if on cue, the sound of snarling suddenly reached Stiles’ ears just as he came to an intersection of two hallways.  If he wasn’t mistaken, that was the sound of one very pissed off werewolf.  Stiles stopped, some of his temper cooling as he reminded himself that he was still trapped in this haunted funhouse, and that he and his friends were still in very real danger.  Trying to slow the angry beating of his heart so that the blood stopped rushing through his ears, the teen closed his eyes and listened, hoping desperately to figure out which direction the snarls were coming from.

            Finally deciding that turning to his right was the best option, Stiles headed off down the new hallway, his shotgun aimed at the shadows in front of him.  Apparently he’d chosen correctly, because the snarling grew louder as he advanced.  Stiles also thought he could hear what seemed to be a woman’s voice beneath the snarls, the tone of it alternately taunting and then pain-filled.  Remembering his recent encounter, Stiles’ grip tightened on the gun and he sped up his pace slightly.

            Suddenly he turned a corner and the hallway opened into a wide expanse at the base of a staircase.  The light from his flashlight fell upon a familiar figure; the man’s back was turned toward the teen.

            “Peter,” Stiles sighed in relief.  He’d never thought he’d be so glad to see the psychopath, especially not all alone in a dark and spooky haunted insane asylum.

            The werewolf turned toward him and Stiles’ relief vanished.  Peter’s eyes were wide and wild, glowing fiercely with wolf-blue.  His claws were extended and his lips were curled into a snarl that showed his fangs, vicious and ready to tear.  Worst of all, his hands, his lips and his chin were all covered in brilliant, crimson blood.

            “Peter?” Stiles said, his voice tiny in the vast darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

            “Pete, man, are you okay?” Stiles asked as he tried to subtly keep the shotgun pointed at the wolf.  He wanted the protection in case Peter decided to attack, but was afraid that he might antagonize the obviously unstable man.  Peter’s stare was unnerving, full of rage and without any sense of recognition.  It was a forcible reminder that Peter was a killer – and really, Stiles needed to stop forgetting that disturbing little fact.  Had he actually been _relieved_ to see Peter Hale?

            The werewolf stepped toward the teen, a low growl rumbling from his chest.  Stiles hurriedly took a step back.  “Hey, whoa there, Petey.  It’s just, you know, little old me.  And hey, where’d all that blood come from?”  No, Stiles’ voice was not cracking.  A horrible thought hit the teen suddenly.  “Where are the others?”  He swept his eyes around the open space, but with only the meager light of his flashlight to illuminate it, there were too many shadows to tell if any bodies lay on the ground.

            As Peter shifted to take another step toward Stiles a dark shape suddenly moved behind him causing the werewolf to whip around.  “I’m going to kill you, bitch!” he snarled as he raked his claws across the woman who’d stepped from the shadows.

            Stiles blinked, surprised that he recognized the unexpected interloper.  “Is that … Kate Argent?”

            Peter growled and latched onto the dark-haired hunter, sinking his teeth into her shoulder as she screamed.  A second later the wolf held only empty air and his eyes grew wilder as he scanned the shadows for his quarry.  “I’m going to kill you!” he howled again.

            “Umm, Peter…” Stiles wasn’t really sure he wanted to draw the man’s attention in his current state, but he thought this was an important point.  “Didn’t you _already_ kill her?”

            “Then I’ll kill her again!”  The wolf spun around and lunged, pulling the woman from where she’d been creeping up on him in the shadows.  He threw her to the ground and followed her down, his claws shredding her abdomen into a bloody mess.  Stiles fought the urge to barf at the sight.

            Kate didn’t scream this time.  She laughed, lying still as Peter tore into her.  Stiles finally got a good look at her and… well, she kind of already looked dead.  Her skin was pale, her eyes were rimmed with dark, bruising circles, and her throat was laid open just as he remembered it being when he’d seen her body in the Hale house.  She even seemed kind of transparent, but less so than the spirit that had pretended to be his mother.

            And then she was gone again, but the laughter continued, coming from all directions.  “Tell me, Peter, did they know they were about to die?” the taunting voice floated around them.  “Or did they just panic like the dumb animals that they were?”  Peter roared and whirled frantically, his teeth bared in an angry snarl.

            Suddenly she was right behind the werewolf, her hand reaching up to cradle the back of his head as her body pressed against him.  Peter stilled in mid-motion as if frozen.  He gasped as she leaned into him, her arm wrapping across his chest, her lips brushing against his ear.  “Did they beg you to save them, Peter?  Was there hatred in their eyes when they realized that you wouldn’t?”

            “Couldn’t,” Peter rasped, but he sounded strange, breathless.  Kate smiled wide, revealing a mouth almost black with blood.  She drew a deep breath as if scenting Peter, and as she did, Stiles swore that she became a little less transparent even as the wolf’s eyes momentarily dimmed.

            “Oh shit,” Stiles muttered, unsettled by the sight.  Before he could react further, she was gone, leaving Peter alone and shaking his head as if to clear it.  When the man looked around again, his eyes were once more glowing and full of rage.  The werewolf’s lips curled in another growl, and he darted forward to grab for Kate where she had reappeared in a nearby shadow.  He smiled as he plunged a hand into her chest while she screamed.

            “Peter, stop!” Stiles shouted.  “That’s not Kate!”  But the wolf seemed oblivious to the teen now, spinning as the ghost once more vanished from his hands and reemerged from a shadow by the stairs.

            “Peter!” Stiles spat in frustration.  This was _so_ not good.  The teen fumbled with his flashlight and shotgun, trying to aim the weapon, but the specter’s motions were too swift.  It would appear beside Peter one moment, and then pop up across the room the next.  “Peter, you have to stop!  She’s doing something to you!”  Even as he watched, the Kate-ghost drew a hand along the wolf’s arm, sending a shudder through the man, dimming his eyes, and in turn making her form just that little bit more solid.

            “You know what my favorite part was?” she purred.  “The thought of wiping out your pack’s _spawn_ , so that even if one or two of you managed to escape, your future, your legacy would be completely decimated.”

            Peter drew in a sharp breath, his human eyes bright with what almost seemed like tears before they suddenly exploded into an angry wolf-blue, and the man _howled_.

            “Aww, fuck.”  Stiles muttered with feeling.  There was no way Peter was going to hear him now.  For a moment the teen felt helplessness well up inside him, but that feeling reminded him of the encounter with his fake-mom ghost, and sudden anger rushed instead to take its place.  This ghost-thing was a dick, and Stiles wasn’t going to let it fuck with anybody else, even the creeperwolf.

            So Stiles made one of the more heroic moves in his life.  Yeah, he was going with “heroic”, because he didn’t really want to admit to “stupider”.  He shoved the flashlight into his mouth again, freeing his hands for a steadier aim, then waited for the ghost to appear in the one place that he knew it would eventually be.  The next time the Kate-ghost materialized at Peter’s side to touch the wolf and momentarily bringing a halt to the wild fight, Stiles darted forward, close enough to brush Peter’s shoulder as he shoved the barrel of his shotgun right into her face and pulled the trigger.  He got another split second look at a hissing, fanged face, before the rock salt blew her into ashy smoke.

            “Ha ha!” Stiles crowed triumphantly, or tried to.  With the flashlight in his mouth it came out sounding more like “Hmm Hmm!” but whatever.  His triumph was short lived though as a force suddenly slammed into him, shoving him up against a wall.  The flashlight dropped from his mouth as he cried out in pain when ten clawed fingers buried themselves in his shoulders.  Stiles stared at Peter in shock.

            The man looked positively deadly in the sudden shadows created by the fallen light.  His jaw was tense.  His lips were curled, though only a hint of fang could be seen. His nostrils flared as he breathed in short, angry pants.  Blood still covered his chin.  And his eyes…well his eyes threatened to give Stiles frostbite with the pure, cold fury that showed in their glowing depths.

            Stiles suddenly flashed back to that night on the lacrosse field almost a year ago, when he’d knelt next to the monster crouching over Lydia’s body.  This was that same intense anger that he’d seen then, ruthless and pitiless as any predator.  And he reacted as he had then – reacted in response to that predator.  The teen’s eyes skittered away from Peter, looking down and only chancing fleeting glances at the man so as not to offer a challenge to the wolf staring him down.

            “Peter… buddy.  It’s me.  It’s Stiles,” he babbled.  “You know, Stiles, the guy whose ass you’ve been kicking every week … when you’re not trying to touch it.  You’ve got to trust me, man.  That wasn’t Kate.  And that fight … _really_ wasn’t healthy for you.”  His voice was shaking, and he wished desperately that he could slow his pounding heartbeat.  The teen suspected that both reactions were all-too-visible signs of weakness that might stir the riled werewolf to attack.

            Several long seconds passed, with only the rapid patter of Stiles’ heartbeat in his ears, before the sound of Peter’s voice sent sudden relief shooting through the teen.  “Next time, Stiles, I would suggest you _not_ get in the way of an angry werewolf.”  The man’s voice was strained but sounded far more normal than it had since Stiles had found him.

            The teen looked up to find the werewolf watching him, his eyes returned to normal, his face serious, but without the frightening anger.  “I’ll… try to keep that in mind,” Stiles assured him.

            “Good,” Peter said shortly.  He flexed his hands then, releasing his death grip on Stiles’ shoulders, and the boy hissed as the claws retracted from his flesh.  Peter looked at the red spots welling up on the teenager’s clothes.  “Sorry.”

            The apology took Stiles off guard.  “No biggie,” he sniffed with forced nonchalance, examining the damage.  “You owe me a new shirt though.”

            Peter gazed at the plaid shirt and T-shirt, already ripped and stained with fake blood, and he gave a crooked smile, something of his usual languid humor returning to him.  “I think it adds authenticity.”

            Stiles glared, but was internally relieved that the wolf was starting to act like his regular snarky self – there was only so much “psychopath” that he could take and he preferred the version he already knew, loathed, and was vaguely attracted to in preference to the freaky one he had just seen.  He really didn’t want any more reminders of the old alpha-days-Peter – much more and Stiles was pretty sure he was going to have a full-blown case of PTSD by the end of the night.  Assuming he survived the night.

            Peter’s grin widened in the face of Stiles’ irritation, before the man abruptly turned and spat, making a face as he wiped a hand across his mouth.  Stiles was momentarily confused before he noticed that the blood that had covered the man’s hands and mouth was slowly fading to a clear, slimy-looking substance.

            “Ew.  What is that?” Stiles asked.

            “Ectoplasm,” Peter answered pulling a handkerchief from a pocket and wiping at his mouth.

            “Really?” Stiles questioned, watching Peter’s movements nervously.  The sight of him wiping away the “blood” was too similar to the memory of watching him wipe Lydia’s blood from his lips.  Really, PTSD by the end of the night, Stiles swore to God.

            “How the hell should I know?” Peter told him in his “you’re an idiot” tone, and spat again.  “How did you know that wasn’t Kate?” he continued, turning his attention to his hands when he decided that his face was clean enough.

            “It tried to do the same thing to me.”  Peter looked at him when he didn’t continue, clearly wanting Stiles to elaborate.  The teen licked his lips and turned away.  “It pretended to be my mom, okay?” he said in annoyance.  “But it wasn’t.”

            Peter’s brow rose.  “How did you know?” he asked in curiosity.

            “Because it _wasn’t_ my mom.”  Now it was Stiles’ turn to use the “you’re an idiot” tone.

            Peter studied him for a moment, then gave a slight nod.  “Tell me what it did,” he ordered.  When Stiles shot him a disgruntled look, annoyed that he was still pushing, the man clarified, “When it attacked _me_.  I’m a little fuzzy on the details of my own encounter.”  The teen supposed that made sense – the guy had definitely been more than a bit worked up.  Stiles gave a brief rundown of Peter’s fight with the fake-Kate.  The werewolf seemed particularly interested in Stiles’ description of his reaction to fake-Kate’s touch, but after the story was told, his next question was simply, “What did you shoot it with?”

            Stiles grinned this time, holding his shotgun up triumphantly.  “Rock salt.  Apparently it does work on ghosts.”

            Peter looked a bit smug at Stiles’ happiness with his gun, but said, “I’m not sure it _was_ a ghost.”

            The teen’s brow furrowed in confusion.  “Then what was it?”

            Peter had finished cleaning his hands and he was folding the handkerchief into a neat square.  “Not sure,” he replied airily.

            Stiles’ eyes narrowed.  “But you have a theory.”

            Peter hummed.  “A few.”

            “Okaaay.  Care to share?” Stiles asked in annoyance.

            “Nope.”  The bastard even popped the “p”.  

            “Fine,” Stiles ground out.  “Do you know what it was doing to you?”

            “Not really, but…”  The man shrugged as he tucked the handkerchief back into the inside pocket of his jacket.

            “Theories.  That you’re not sharing.  Right.”  Stiles glared.  “Well do you think there’s just the one, or do you think ours were two separate ghosts, or whatever they are?”

            Peter pretended to think for a minute, then shrugged again.  “No idea,” he replied innocently.

            “Do you have _any_ ideas that you’d like to share?”

            “Well, it would probably be a good idea to find the others,” he offered with a charming smile.  Stiles endeavored to kill him with his glare.  Peter stooped and scooped up Stiles’ forgotten flashlight, swinging its beam toward the staircase.  “And I’d say we should start upstairs.  Their scents all seem to be in that direction.”  The man’s eyes narrowed slightly.  “Which makes sense.”

            It took Stiles a moment, but then he made the connection too.  “Room 313.”

            “Yep.”  Jerk popped the “p” again.

            Stiles gave him an indignant look.  “You realize, I could be eating candy right now.  Surrounded by beautiful girls.”

            Peter grinned, before grabbing the back of Stiles’ collar and propelling him forward.  “After you,” he told him as he shoved the teen’s flashlight into his hands.  Sighing at the unfairness of his life, Stiles reluctantly started up the stairs.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay in getting this chapter up. I sort of crashed before I could do the final edit yesterday. That'll teach me to try to operate on 3 hours sleep 'cause I stayed up reading fanfiction. ...Yeah, right.

            The teenager and the werewolf moved cautiously down the darkened corridor, a twin to the ones Stiles had traversed on the floor below.  The teen was slightly ahead, his flashlight illuminating the way.  The butt of his shotgun was propped against his hip, the weapon ready to bring to bear at the slightest provocation.  Peter moved to his left and slightly behind him, his eyes darting around their surroundings, using his wolf-vision to watch the darkness at their backs and his sense of smell to provide a direction through the winding maze of hallways.

            At any other time Stiles might have been unnerved to have the older man so close, never mind at his back. But after weeks of combat lessons from the man Stiles had a pretty good idea of just what Peter was capable of, and in their current situation that knowledge made the werewolf’s presence oddly reassuring – he was a solid, deadly … _asshole_ who was staring at Stiles’ tail again!

            “Are you seriously looking at my tail _now_?” the teen ground out.

            Peter looked thoughtful.  “It’s … swishing at me.”

            Stiles glanced at the man in disbelief.  “We’re in the middle of a Wes Craven movie and you’re concerned with the movements of my costume accessory?  What is _wrong_ with you?”

            The werewolf’s lips quirked.  “I’ve been told, a great many things.  Mostly by you and Derek.”

            “I wonder why,” Stiles muttered.  “Instead of staring at my ass, as awesome as I know it is-” Peter snorted, “-you’re supposed to be using your super-sniffer to find the others, and yet I get the feeling that we’re traveling in circles.”  He twirled the flashlight for emphasis.

            “Because we probably are.”  Peter shrugged carelessly.  When Stiles’ eyes narrowed, clearly demanding an explanation, the man gave a long-suffering sigh.  “The scent is confused.  It keeps moving, changing direction.  Either the others are fairly close and we keep just missing them or, more likely, something is moving _us_ , manipulating our path to keep us separate from them.”

            The teenager huffed in outrage.  “Great!  And you didn’t think this was something worth mentioning a little sooner.”

            “Your tail distracted me?” Peter tried, doing a poor job of hiding his smile.  When Stiles’ expression turned deadly he rolled his eyes.  “I wasn’t sure it was happening.  Okay?  Now I am.”

            “How come?”

            Peter pointed to a door they were nearing.  It looked the same as every other door they had passed, but at Peter’s urging, Stiles stepped closer, swinging his flashlight around.  The teen was just able to make out a small “x” scratched into the wood near the handle.  “I put that there twenty minutes ago.  This is the third time we’ve passed that door,” Peter told him matter-of-factly.

            “God damn it!” Stiles shouted, kicking the door in his frustration.  “Stupid fucking ghost!”  The air seemed to grow thicker around them and the teen glared into the darkness.  He almost hoped that the spook would react to his insults so that he could vent his frustrations.  With his shotgun.  “We have _got_ to find the others before something happens to them.  Why aren’t you more concerned about finding them?”  He whirled on Peter – if he couldn’t take out his anger on the ghost, he might as well take it out on the creeper at his side.

            The wolf shrugged, looking unruffled by Stiles’ anger.  “Because they’re usually surprisingly resilient.  That and I don’t really care.  Why are you so worried?”

            “Because they’re my friends, you bastard!”  The psychopath’s indifference only goaded the teen further.

            Peter rolled his eyes again.  “I meant, why are so _very_ worried?  You usually have a little more faith in them than that – God only knows why.”

            If his hands weren’t full Stiles would have been pulling his hair in frustration.  As it was, he had to be satisfied with gesturing wildly in the hopes that his manic motions properly conveyed his agitation.  This was perhaps not the best course of action considering what he was holding – their light stuttered erratically across the hallway and Peter watched the dancing barrel of the shotgun warily.  “ _Because_ ,” Stiles ground out, “this thing is trying to screw with our heads.  Heck, _you_ were well on your way to Crazy-ville when I found you.”

            Peter didn’t look convinced.  “You might have noticed this, Stiles, but I arrived at ‘Crazy-ville’ a long time ago.”  He shrugged.  “I don’t see how this creature is more threatening to the others than anything else they’ve faced.”

            Stiles was taken off guard by the confession.  “Dude, that’s not something you’re supposed to just admit.”

            Peter smirked, his eyes unreadable.  “I think honesty is very important for our relationship.”

            The teen snorted.  “Since when?  And what relationship?”

            The man hummed and ignored the questions.  “Anyway, you’re concerned that the others will be especially susceptible to this specter’s mind-games?” he prompted.

            Stiles gave him a look.  “You do know who we’re talking about, right?  You’ve got to have some idea of the sort of baggage these guys have.”

            The wolf considered that.  “Good point,” he finally admitted.

            “I know, right?  So we have _got_ to find them.”  Stiles wasn’t satisfied with his own words, they didn’t sound confident enough.  “No,” he corrected himself.  “We are _going_ to find them.  Now.”  He kicked the marked door again to emphasize his point and it swung open easily, revealing another hallway down which the sound of voices floated.

            Both teen and werewolf stared down the new corridor in surprise before sharing an incredulous look.  Peter’s gaze turned thoughtful as he examined the teenager, until Stiles began to shift uncomfortably beneath the strange look.  “Interesting,” Peter finally murmured.

            “What?”  The intensity of those cool blue eyes was creeping Stiles out even more than usual.

            “Later.  Shall we?”  Peter gestured toward the open door.  Stiles gave a short nod and the two of them set off down the corridor.

            As they moved along the hall, Stiles thought he could detect a slight lightening of their surroundings, as if a soft glow was emanating from the walls.  But there was nothing encouraging about the change in lighting; the glow was reddish, angry and malicious.  It seemed to press in on them, and it made the teen feel claustrophobic.  The strengthening sound of the voices ahead did not help this sensation.  There were at least two, young and higher pitched than Scott, Derek, or Isaac; perhaps belonging to children or maybe young women.  They were angry, shouting and accusatory, and there was something snarling to the voices, animal-like, just as he was used to hearing from the werewolves when they were enraged.  Finally, as they rounded a curve in the hall, they came upon the source of the voices.

            “Derek!” Stiles shouted surging forward.  Peter’s hand clamped down onto his wounded shoulder, bringing him up short with a hiss of pain.

            “Wait,” the older man ordered, appearing not to notice the teen’s discomfort.  He was staring intently at the scene before them.

            “Why?!” Stiles asked in agitation, trying to shrug the wolf’s hand off of him.

            “Do you remember what happened the last time you jumped in and interfered?”  Peter squeezed his hand to make his point, and Stiles gasped in pain.  Son of a bitch!  The psychopath focused his expressionless eyes on the teenager.  “Let’s take a moment to assess the situation, hmm?”  He released Stiles and looked again toward his nephew.

            Derek knelt in the center of the hallway, his head hung down, his entire body slumped in growing defeat.  With each hand he half-heartedly held a snarling werewolf at bay.  On his right was a young woman, on his left was a girl, perhaps ten years old.  Both had the same dark hair as Derek’s own.  Both were attacking him, clawed hands raking across his arms, his chest, his cheeks, until the floor was slick with his blood.  Both wolves were also screaming at him in rage.

            “It’s your fault, Derek!”

            “Your fault that we’re dead, Derek!”

            “You failed us!  You killed us!”

            “You were supposed to protect us!  It’s all your fault!”

            The attacking wolves also seemed as dead and ghost-like as the specters that had confronted Stiles and Peter – their eyes rimmed with dark circles, their bodies transparent.  But with every second that Stiles watched, their forms grew more solid while Derek seemed to lose a little more of his will to hold them off.  And over everything washed the flickering, angry red light, dancing like a hungry flame on the disturbing tableau.  Stiles felt sick to his stomach as he stared at the battered alpha.

            “Is that … his sister?” he finally rasped, his mouth dry as he stared at the young woman slashing at Derek.

            “Laura,” Peter confirmed.  Stiles couldn’t make out the expression in the man’s eyes because the red light was dancing wickedly across their surface.

            “Who’s the kid?”

            “Derek’s younger sister.  Cora.  She died in the fire.”  The elder Hale’s tone was flat.

            “Oh,” Stiles answered in a small voice.  “I didn’t know he had another sister.”

            Peter started forward suddenly, his face set into grim lines.  “Let me try something,” he told Stiles over his shoulder.  “Be ready to shoot him if he tries to kill me for this.”

            “Well that’s reassuring,” Stiles griped, shouldering his gun as he stared wide-eyed after the advancing werewolf.  A few seconds’ fumbling allowed the teen to work out a method of holding the flashlight to the underside of the weapon with one hand, using his grip to steady both the light and the gun.   Maybe next time he should invest in one of those fancy night-vision scopes – or better yet, maybe he could convince Peter to make the upgrade, since the gun was his idea and all.  Not that Stiles wasn’t extremely grateful for the weapon in their current situation.

            Peter kept a wary watch on the two girls, but they seemed to have eyes only for Derek, so the werewolf walked right up to stand before the kneeling alpha.  “Derek,” he said, his voice calm and commanding.  Wearily the alpha raised his head to stare blankly at his uncle.  “These aren’t your ghosts, Derek,” Peter told him.  He moved then with sharp swiftness and grabbed hold of the Laura-ghost.  “This one,” he told Derek, “is mine.”  He made sure the younger man was watching as he plunged a hand into the snarling woman’s stomach and ripped open her abdomen.  He threw the specter harshly from him and snatched up the ghost-child.  “And this one,” he smiled at Derek, who was now staring at him with angry, glowing red eyes, “belongs to the Argents.”  Peter glanced back at Stiles, providing the briefest of warnings, before he shoved the Cora-ghost into the open.  Stiles took the cue and fired, the shotgun blast echoing off the walls as the child disintegrated into smoke.  The teen quickly pumped another round into the chamber, ignoring the slight trembling in his hands.  Even knowing that she wasn’t real, the specter had looked like a little girl, and shooting it had been just plain disturbing. 

            Peter stood over his nephew, offering his bloody hand to the man, a dark smile dancing on his lips and his eyes glowing a mad-blue.  “ _I’m_ the only ghost you need to worry about, Derek.”

            The alpha surged forward, his roar shaking the walls as he slammed into Peter with bone crunching force.  The older wolf made no move to resist him, allowing himself to be crushed against the wall.

            “Derek!  Stop!” Stiles shouted.  The alpha turned his blazing eyes toward the teen and growled, his face fully shifted.  Stiles suddenly had the urge to back away quickly.  “Ah, shit,” he muttered somehow holding his ground in the face of a pissed off alpha.

            “Hit _me_ if it’ll make you feel better, Derek,” Peter hurriedly said, shooting Stiles a warning look as he recaptured the infuriated alpha’s attention.  “Get angry,” he goaded, and Stiles was pretty sure that the elder Hale had lost what little sanity he had.  “That’s better than giving up.  Look at what you’re surrendering to!”  He pointed over Derek’s shoulder, drawing all of their attention to the forgotten Laura-ghost.  Stiles couldn’t believe that he’d allowed himself to overlook the thing, but he supposed it was easy enough to do in the face of Derek’s rage.  The spook was back on its feet, with eviscerated abdomen and all, and as they turned to look at it, it hissed at them.  Its face was no longer a werewolf’s but something else, all gaunt features and sharp fangs.  Stiles quickly raised his shotgun and it swung its gaze toward him, freezing his blood in his veins.  There was absolute hatred in its eyes as it stared at him, hatred that Stiles could feel clawing at his mind, and suddenly the teen found his hands shaking too badly to fire the gun.  He made a choked noise, his face contorting in pain as the ghost stepped toward him, raising clawed hands.

            The antagonism between the two wolves was abruptly forgotten as they both sensed the threat to Stiles and reacted instantly, moving together to attack the specter.  As their attention focused upon the creature, it let out an ear-splitting shriek then suddenly blinked out of sight.  The red light disappeared with it, plunging the hallway back into mostly darkness with only Stiles’ flashlight illuminating them all.  Stiles gasped in relief and shook his head to clear it of the vileness of the thing’s attack.  For a moment they all stood still, trying to absorb what had just happened.

            “Those _weren’t_ your sisters, Derek,” Peter finally said in a tired voice, breaking the silence.  He met the alpha’s red eyes with an unwavering gaze.  “And even if they were, their ghosts aren’t your responsibility.  Let them fall to the ones who actually earned them.”

            Derek stared for a moment, then closed his eyes.  When he opened them again, he had shifted back to his human form.  “What the fuck is going on?” he ground out.

            “Well,” Stiles began, his voice a little shaky after the unnerving encounter, “there is _definitely_ some sort of creepy shit going on in this building.  We’ve all had our own version of the “Ghosts of Halloween Past” and we’re stuck in this maze of horrors.  Peter has theories about what’s going on…”

            “That I’m not sharing,” Peter helpfully inserted.

            “Because he’s…” Stiles continued.

            “Still working out the correct theory,” Peter supplied.

            “An asshole.”  Stiles corrected.

            Derek glared them both into silence.  “Peter,” he finally said, his tone commanding.

            The older man sighed.  “I’d rather not give false information.”

            “Since when?” Stiles muttered. 

            Peter ignored him.  “There are several possibilities.  Knowing what those possibilities are won’t help us deal with the thing; in fact they just might confuse the issue further.  I’d prefer to wait until I have a little more to go on.”

            Derek stared at him for several long moments, but Peter simply maintained an innocently earnest expression.  The younger Hale finally sighed.  “Where are Scott and Isaac?” he asked.

            “We haven’t found them yet,” Peter told him.  “We’ve been following scents.  You were the first one we were actually able to pin down.”

            “Then let’s keep looking.”  And that was the end of it.  Stiles looked between the two Hales, his eyes narrowed and his mouth open in disbelief.  How could Derek just drop it?  Peter grinned and when the alpha turned his back, he winked at Stiles.  The teen briefly contemplated shooting the man on general principles.  Rock salt wouldn’t permanently damage a werewolf after all.

            “Let’s move,” Derek growled.  Stiles was prepared to argue further, but there was a tired set to the alpha’s shoulders that made him pause.  The teen glanced at both wolves, thinking back on the scenes he had witnessed between them and the specter.  His own run-in had been horrible, but he couldn’t even fathom what the two of them had been feeling during their encounters, or what toll it might have taken on them.  And Scott and Isaac were still out there alone with the creature, possibly facing similar horrors.  Maybe moving forward was the right idea.

            “Fine,” the teen reluctantly conceded.   He moved to start down the hall, but a hand in the middle of his chest stopped him abruptly.

            Derek looked him over with narrowed eyes, his nostrils flaring as he caught a bothersome scent.  “You’re bleeding.”  His gaze flickered suspiciously toward Peter.

            Peter’s face instantly took on a concerned expression, as if he hadn’t been aware of Stiles’ wounds before now.  Stiles looked between the two wolves again, sensing that he had missed something and that he could potentially cause Peter some trouble depending on his next words.

            “Uh, yeah,” Stiles finally said dismissively.  “I got careless with Peter’s ghost earlier, and…” he mimed a clawing motion.  It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it certainly wasn’t the whole truth either.  He shrugged in the face of Derek’s skeptical look, before his eyes were inevitably drawn to Peter.  The older wolf’s blue eyes were locked on him, a strange amusement that Stiles couldn’t quite understand dancing in their depths.  The slightest of smiles quirked the man’s lips.

            “Hmm,” Derek still seemed suspicious, but he let it go, running his hand over the ghost-inflicted wounds on his cheek thoughtfully.  A second later he pulled his hand back, his face twisting in disgust.

            “What the hell is this?” he growled, staring at his slime-covered hand.

            “Oh, hey, they didn’t actually hurt you,” Stiles said in confusion as he stared at the alpha.  The rips in both Derek’s skin and clothes were disappearing into the same slimy substance that had covered Peter earlier.

            The elder Hale watched the fading wounds intently, clearly filing the information away.  “Interesting,” he murmured, before glancing down at his own hands and grimacing in distaste.  The one he had used to rip into the Laura-ghost was covered in slime.  “Just after I cleaned it,” he complained as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a fresh handkerchief.

            Stiles stared at him with disbelief.  “Is that _another_ handkerchief?” he asked.  “Who even carries one handkerchief any more, let alone two of them?”

            Peter raised a brow.  “Please, Stiles.  I’m not a savage.”

            “Let’s just move,” Derek snapped, interrupting before the two could start bickering.  “We still don’t know where the others are.”

            This sobering thought shut Stiles up and at least made Peter pretend to be concerned, so without any further arguments, they headed into the shadows in search of their companions.


	5. Chapter 5

            They traveled silently down an endless stretch of dark halls, trying every door that they came across, chasing the fleeting scent of Scott and Isaac.  But their efforts continued to prove fruitless; the doors were either locked, remaining impervious to even the werewolves’ strength, or only opened onto yet more infinite, empty hallways.

            Conversation between them had quickly fallen off completely – discouraged by the growing sensation that they were under hostile watch.  Stiles swore that the shadows around them seemed to be growing deeper while the light of his flashlight seemed to dim.  Then again, maybe his batteries were just dying.  He’d have to remember to pack some spares the next time he went for a jaunt in a freaking haunted house.  Still whether the threat was imagined or not, Stiles felt his tension grow with every step they took, and his shoulder blades practically itched with the weight of their unseen watcher.  It was like that scene in every horror movie ever made, when it gets real quiet and the eerie music in the background builds until BAM, the monster jumps out and kills somebody.  Stiles was idly trying to work out his personal soundtrack when Peter slammed the latest useless door-onto-a-hallway shut, making the teen almost jump out of his skin.

            “Jesus!” Stiles snapped while Derek turned glaring eyes on his uncle.  “What the hell, dude?”

            “This is growing tiresome,” Peter replied calmly, looking intently at the door he’d slammed.  If looks could kill, the door would be splinters right now.

            “And how exactly will attracting the ghost-thing or giving me a heart attack change anything?  Oh, well I suppose one of those outcomes _would_ at least add a little variety to the routine, right?” Stiles asked, pure sarcasm lacing his words.

            Peter looked at him coolly for a moment, his head tilted slightly.  Then he smiled abruptly.  The teen blinked, taken off guard.  He felt his cheeks heat up beneath Peter’s fond gaze and he quickly turned away to escape it. 

            Stiles hated when Peter smiled like that.  It wasn’t one of the man’s smug smirks or taunting grins, but a real, honest-to-God smile – the kind that lit his face and crinkled his eyes, making them glow without the need of any wolf-light at all.  It held a sort of warmth that made Peter look younger, look _normal_ , more the way Stiles imagined the werewolf might have been before the fire.  Stiles hated _that smile_ because the only time he saw the expression on Peter’s face was in response to something _he’d_ said, as if Stiles alone was able to draw out a humor in Peter that the man had long ago forgotten.  It was a dangerous smile – threatening to make the teenager forget the manipulator that lurked beneath.  And knowing Stiles’ luck it was probably just proof of how good an actor the psychopath really was.

            “Maybe,” Derek’s voice suddenly interrupted the teen’s unsettling thoughts, “you could share your theories _now_.”  The alpha was staring at his uncle, a warning look in his expression.  The older wolf’s smile shifted to a smirk, causing Derek’s gaze to darken further.  “We aren’t getting anywhere as things stand,” the younger wolf growled, “so now might be a good time to discuss our options.”

            Peter looked thoughtful as if actually considering Derek’s suggestion, before his gaze settled on Stiles again, and a smug, calculating expression crossed his face.  “Umm, no.  I don’t think now is the time for sharing.  But speaking of options, if locating the others doesn’t work, maybe we should cut our losses and change strategies.  We could try to find our own way out.”

            Stiles’ mouth dropped open in disbelief.  “What?!” he sputtered.

            Peter shrugged, looking the picture of earnest concern.  “It’s just, I’m getting the impression that the thing behind all this unpleasantness isn’t too pleased with us right now.  I’m sure you feel the same ominous … lurker-vibes that I do.” He waved a hand at the darkness pressing in on them.

            “You _would_ know about lurker-vibes,” Derek muttered.

            Peter ignored him.  His attention was fixed on Stiles and there was something sharp and eager in his watchful gaze.  “Maybe our ghostly host will let us leave, just to get rid of us.”

            The teenager couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  “No way!” he snarled.  “We are not leaving them.  We’re going to find them!”

            Peter appeared doubtful, but if Stiles hadn’t been so annoyed he would have noticed that there was amusement sparkling in the wolf’s eyes.  “Unlikely.  It’s a lost cause, Stiles.”

            The boy ground his teeth and again thought about shooting the man.  “We _will_ find them,” he said in a firm, even tone.

            The sound of glass breaking up ahead caused their heads to whip around.  An angry shout spurred them into action, sending them running down the hallway.  As Peter drew even with Stiles, the teen caught the wolf glancing at him, a pleased smile playing on his lips.  At Stiles’ questioning look, Peter just murmured a soft, “Good boy,” that for some reason sent a shudder up the teen’s spine.

            Then they hit an intersection of corridors and turned the corner to find the far end of the new hallway suddenly illuminated in a sickly green glow.  The light came from a pocket of miraculously working fluorescents flickering overhead.  Stiles strongly doubted that the sudden operation of the lights was an accident, because they could see two figures lit beneath.

            Isaac was on the ground against the wall.  He was curled up with his knees drawn to his chest and his arms covering his head.  Over him loomed a man, transparent and ghostly, that it took Stiles a moment to place.  Then his memory clicked and he knew who Isaac’s ghost was – his father.

            Even as they watched, a beer bottle appeared in the man’s hands and he threw it at the cringing teen.  The bottle shattered above Isaac’s head, raining glass upon the boy.  “You moron!” the specter screamed, anger contorting its face.  “You worthless piece of garbage!”

            “Dad, please.”  The words were so cracked that Stiles had trouble recognizing them as Isaac’s.  “Please, don’t.”

            “How many times do I have to tell you?” Isaac’s ghost-dad continued, uncaring of the young wolf’s terror.  “Do you want to go in the freezer?  Yeah, that’s where you belong!  Do you hear me, son?  Grab the chains and get in the freezer!”

            “No, no, no!” Isaac was almost keening with panic, scrabbling to get away from the man above him.  The ghost kicked at the crawling boy, smiling as it connected with his ribs, making Isaac gasp and collapse while the specter’s transparent form became a bit more solid.

            Maybe Derek and Peter felt a surge of anger similar to Stiles’ own at the sight, because all three of them launched themselves down the hallway.  The werewolves shifted as they moved so that claws and fangs were at the ready as they neared the two figures.  Derek moved fastest, reaching the fake-Lahey first.  As the alpha raised a clawed hand to swipe at the ghost, the thing spun around, face contorting as it snarled and dodged the alpha’s blow.  It tried to turn back to Isaac, reaching out for the huddling teen, but Derek was already moving between them, protecting his beta.

            “Stiles, gun,” Peter ordered, and Stiles was happy to aim the shotgun at the bastard-spook.  But as he sighted down the barrel, the thing swept its gaze around to him and the teen once more felt the full force of its hatred crash down upon him.  His hands went numb, the gun threatening to slide from them.  His head felt like it was about to split open, and Stiles couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped his lips at the pain.

            Suddenly clawed hands steadied his own and he felt a warm body at his back.  “I won’t let it near you, Stiles,” Peter whispered against his ear.  The teen could feel the pressure of the spook’s anger receding as he focused on the scrape of the wolf’s stubbled cheek against his skin.  “So just shoot the fucking thing already.”

            Stiles smiled grimly.  Peter had such a way with words.  Strength returned to the teen’s hands and he lined his shot up again.  This fucking ghost was going down.  He met the specter’s gaze unflinchingly, prepared to blow it into ashy dust, but suddenly it screamed.  They were all forced to cover their ears against the painful sound, and while they were distracted it vanished into thin air, taking the flickering hall lights with it.

            They stood in the near dark for a moment, tense and waiting for an attack, when a hesitant voice finally broke the stillness.  “Umm.  What the hell just happened?”

            Stiles swung his flashlight around, stepping hastily away from Peter as he did, suddenly aware of just how close the werewolf was.  His light fell on Isaac where he still sat against the wall at Derek’s feet.  The other teen blinked, raising an arm to shield against the blinding light.  When Derek offered a hand, Isaac accepted and climbed to his feet.  They all pretended not to see when he hurriedly swiped his sleeve across his face to wipe away the tear streaks that stained his cheeks.

            “Well,” Stiles decided to answer him when no one else seemed about to volunteer, “you just joined the ‘haunted-by-fake-undead-relatives club’.  Congratulations!”  Catching sight of Peter’s unimpressed expression, the teenager cheerily added, “And let’s not forget the ‘haunted-by-fake-people-you-actually-killed auxiliary’.”  _That_ succeeded in quirking the man’s lips.  Stiles felt accomplished.

            “Okaaay.”  Isaac sounded no less confused.

            Derek gave a long-suffering sigh.  “We’ll explain as we look for Scott.”

            “And may I suggest we start looking up there?”  Peter pointed toward a staircase that Stiles was pretty sure hadn’t existed until that minute.

            “Third floor,” Stiles added unnecessarily.  “Room 313, here we come.”

            “That’s it, Stiles, keep thinking positively.”  For once Stiles couldn’t tell if Peter was being sarcastic or not – the older wolf looked oddly intense as he gestured Stiles forward.

            As they made it to the top of the stairs and stared down a familiar hallway, a thought suddenly occurred to Stiles.  “Hey,” he said in a joking tone, “it’s kind of like we’re leveling up each time we find someone and beat their ghost.  At this rate, that would make Scott’s ghost – the 313 ghost, I guess – that would make it the final boss-ghost.  I wonder what that’s going to be like.”

            Abruptly there was a low screeching noise, like the entire building was preparing to collapse, and the walls shuddered.  The overhead lights flickered on and off like stuttering lightning, and even Stiles’ flashlight joined in the fun as it flashed and flared.  A cold wind howled down the hallway, strong enough to push them back a few steps.  And beside them the very stones of the building groaned as the wall _moved_ , swallowing up the stairway until there was nothing but a seamless expanse of hallway both before and behind them.

            The unrest ended as abruptly as it had begun, leaving them in an eerie silence.  Then, as one, Peter, Derek, and Isaac turned to stare at Stiles with identical expressions of aggravation.

            “You just _had_ to ask,” Peter sighed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: You will probably notice chunks of season 3 dialogue scattered in the next few chapters. Obviously, I did not create these dialogues - that credit goes to the folks working on the Teen Wolf show. But, just like the rest of this fun TW world, I thoroughly enjoyed them in their original forms, so they have been repurposed, rearranged, and reassigned to fit the needs of this AU. I expect this will happen again in the course of this series. There is some truly fantastic dialogue on this show, and just because this is an AU doesn't mean these fun conversations should cease to exist. :D

            Stiles stared with wide eyes at the smooth expanse of wall that had been the staircase. “That was so not my fault,” he said pointing a finger at the wall.

            Isaac’s face clearly showed his skepticism.  “Sure.”

            Stiles’ eyes narrowed in an outraged glare.  “Seriously, you can _not_ hold me responsible for the actions of some demented, asshole ghost.”

            The slamming of a door down the hall startled them all.  When _every_ door along the length of the hall then began to slam open and shut, Stiles had to admit that the dark expressions the others turned on him were not wholly unexpected.   “Okay, _that_ might be my fault,” he acknowledged.

            “Move.  Now,” Derek ordered shortly as the cold wind started up again, rushing down upon them with a howl.  The werewolves and teenager hurried down the corridor, dodging the wildly swinging doors, and warily keeping an eye out for further attack.

            After a few minutes the banging of the doors died down, but strange noises continued to follow them – odd rustling in the shadows and the sensation of movement just out of the reach of Stiles’ light but gone before the wolves could turn their gazes upon it.  It was incredibly unnerving and as far as Stiles was concerned, he was done with the whole rotten adventure.  Where the hell was Scott?  “You know what would be great?” the teen finally huffed as they rounded a bend.

            “If you stopped talking?” Isaac suggested helpfully.

            Stiles ignored him.  “If we ran into Scott right now.”  As the words left his mouth a shape suddenly burst from an intersecting corridor, running full speed into Stiles, knocking him off his feet and sending his flashlight spinning through the air.  After a few moments of confusion while everybody shouted and Stiles flailed beneath the weight on top of him, Isaac finally recovered the flashlight and shone it upon the two bodies on the ground.

            Stiles blinked against the glaring light, then at last recognized who was lying on top of him.  “Scott!” he shouted ecstatically, enthusiastically hugging his friend.

            “Stiles!”  Scott hugged back just as enthusiastically before standing and hauling them both to their feet.  “Am I glad to see you!”

            “What are we, chopped liver?” Isaac asked as he handed Stiles back his light.  Relief was clear behind the mock insult in the beta’s expression.

            Scott smiled and patted the other teen on the shoulder.  “I’m happy to see you too.”  A sudden screeching sounded from behind him, like nails down a chalkboard, and the smile disappeared from Scott’s face.  He looked over his shoulder as a voice floated hauntingly from the shadows. 

            “Scott.”  A figure stepped into the dim edges of Stiles’ light.  It was a young woman in a dirty white dress.  She walked down the hall with an odd swaying motion, placing one bare foot directly in front of the other like a child walking on a crack.  One of her hands trailed along the wall, her ragged nails digging into the plaster and making the horrible scraping noise.  In her other hand she held a scalpel, glistening in the light.  She was transparent and looked _very_ dead.  Like, look up the definition of  “dead comma un-” and you’d find her picture there. 

            “Let’s play, Scott,” she said, giving them a sick, blackened smile.  Her hand flickered and the scalpel she’d held suddenly imbedded itself in the wall next to Scott’s head.  Cracks abruptly grew from the point of penetration, spiderwebbing across the wall, and the entire hallway rumbled, the ground shuddering dangerously beneath their feet.

            Scott turned wide, somewhat panicked eyes on them.  “We should probably run now,” he suggested.  This apparently needed no debate, because they all quickly fell into step behind him as he took off down the hall.

            “What the hell is that?” Derek asked, glancing back to see if the ghost was following.       Stiles too turned back.  For a moment he thought that the specter that followed them was the smaller form of the ghostly Cora Hale, but then he blinked and it was the terrifying unknown woman again and Stiles assumed that he’d imagined it.  Then the thing flickered and reappeared closer to them, like an image from a film reel with a couple frames missing.  Yeah, that was definitely creepy.

            “Mad Molly, I think,” Scott answered shortly.  “She’s been chasing me for, like, hours.  Keeps wanting to ‘play’ which I think means ‘cut my eyes out’.  Nothing I do hurts her, so I was getting a little desperate when I ran into you guys.”

            “And you didn’t think that was something you should tell us immediately!” Isaac said, his expression edging toward panic as he glanced back to find their pursuer now scuttling along the ceiling as she followed after them.  For a second as Isaac watched, the ghost’s shape seemed to flicker and take on the appearance of his father, before abruptly resuming the form of the ghostly girl.

            “But Mad Molly isn’t real!” Stiles shouted, frustrated with the whole fucking thing.

            Behind them Molly suddenly stopped dead where she hung on the ceiling, tilted back her head and let out the most horrendous screech that had them all covering their ears again in pain.  The building shook once more, and the ground buckled beneath their feet, unbalancing them and bringing their run to a ragged halt.

            “Can you just stop talking?!” Isaac demanded, his eyes starting to glow yellow as his panic grew.

            “Or keep talking,” Peter suddenly interjected, sounding incredibly calm as he stared back at the howling ghost.  Briefly, Stiles swore he saw the thing flicker into Kate Argent’s form.  “I think I’m ready to share my theory now.”

            “About time!”  Stiles snarled. 

            Peter appeared unfazed by his heated words.  “We need to find somewhere where we can talk,” he continued.

            “Talk?!  You’re aware that there’s a psychotic ghost behind us, right?” Stiles demanded.

            “Really?  I hadn’t noticed,” Peter told him, his eyes glinting.

            “Enough!” Derek snarled when Stiles opened his mouth to argue more.  “Peter?”

            “Find somewhere we can defend,” the older wolf told him.  “Try the rooms.”

            Derek was already testing the surrounding doors before his uncle finished speaking and the others were quick to join him, with poor results.  “None of these are opening,” the alpha growled, straining to exert his wolf-strength against a door that refused to budge.

            “Say something to piss it off again, maybe it’ll start slamming doors,” Isaac suggested dryly, shooting Stiles a wolf-yellow glare.

            “Ha. Ha,” Stiles returned with a glower of his own, keeping a wary eye on the specter who had returned to the ground and was making her slow, skipped-frame approach again.  The bastard thing was stalking them, fully aware that they had nowhere to run.  And yes, it _was_ flickering into other forms – Stiles glared as his mother momentarily made an appearance.  The ghost quickly shifted back into Mad Molly, and the teen was briefly rocked back on his heels as it leveled a look of pure venom at him.  Peter’s hand on his shoulder caught and steadied him, startling Stiles so that he broke away from the ghost’s gaze.  The teen turned a questioning look on the older man, but Peter’s expression was unreadable.

            “Umm.  I think I found an open one.”  Scott’s voice made Stiles’ head whip around.  He saw a door at the end of the hall that was obviously ajar.  Also obvious, despite the shadows that covered the rest of the area, were the metal numbers, 313, in the center of the door.

            “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”  Stiles said incredulously.  Now the spook was just being insulting.  “We can _not_ go in there.”

            “No, it’s perfect,” Peter cut in again.  He returned their disbelieving looks with an annoyed glare.  “Everybody in,” he ordered, leading the way.  When Mad Molly gave out a cackling shriek, the rest of them decided that the issue could be debated later and followed the psychopath.  “Stiles, give me one of your salt shells,” Peter demanded as they piled into the small room that was more like a cell, empty except for the cot against the opposite wall.

            Seeing that Molly was quickly scuttling toward them _on the wall_ , Stiles decided that now wasn’t really the time to question the older man’s actions.  “Okay,” he said, removing one of the shells from his magazine and dropping it into the wolf’s expectant hand, “but just so you know, I only have one more left.”  The others turned irate looks on him.  “What?!” Stiles said defensively.  “I didn’t know we’d be facing a ghost tonight, or that rock salt would actually even work on ghosts or whatever this thing is.  I just brought a variety pack, and that’s only one full load for the magazine of each shell type.”

            “It’ll be enough,” Peter said dismissively, closing the door with Molly only a few feet away.  He knelt, swiftly opened the shell, and poured a thin line of salt along the threshold of the door.

            “Seriously?” Stiles asked, not believing his eyes.  “Did we somehow _actually_ get transported to an episode of Supernatural and you all just forgot to tell me?”

            “In many folklores and religious beliefs salt disrupts negative energy,” Peter spoke quickly, as if impatient to move the conversation on as he finished the salt line.  “That’s why your dear TV show uses it.  Since it obviously has an effect on our friend out there, I think it’ll buy us enough time to talk.” 

            “You think?” Derek asked, his eyes red and locked on the door, clearly prepared for an attack.

            “You have a better idea?”  Peter replied irritably.  At that moment the door shuddered and an angry wail sounded from the other side.  Peter hurriedly backed away and they all tensed, but the door remained closed.  They waited a few moments, and when there was nothing but an eerie quiet the older wolf turned a smug smile on the rest of them.  “See,” he said as if he’d never doubted that his plan would work.  “Now, Stiles, what do we know about this thing?” he asked, turning his cool blue eyes on the teen and seeming no more concerned than if they were in a classroom having a discussion on Stiles’ latest reading assignment.

            “Are you serious!?  Now is not the time to play twenty questions!” Stiles snapped, glancing nervously at the silent door.

            “Humor me.  It’s important that _you_ understand what’s happening.”

            Well, that was a strange emphasis.  “Why me?” Stiles asked, suspicion flaring.

            “Stiles!” Derek growled, clearly recognizing that his uncle wasn’t about to provide the promised information until the teen cooperated.

            “Alright, alright!” Stiles muttered, glaring at the elder Hale who smiled smugly in return.  The teenager tried to pull his scattered thoughts into some sort of order.  It was times like these when he really hated his ADD.  “What do we know?  Um, it likes to pretend to be dead people and … it can get into our minds; that’s why it takes on the shapes of people we knew.”

            Peter grimaced slightly, not quite pleased with the answer.  “Close,” he allowed.  “What about Scott?”

            “What _about_ Scott?” Stiles asked in exasperation.  Peter’s eyes glittered and the teen hurriedly reached for an answer.  “It wasn’t anyone he knew.”

            “Why?”

            “Why?”  Was it wrong that Stiles was kind of getting into the questions as Peter pushed him to connect the events of the night?  “Because…Scott hasn’t lost anyone personally,” he answered excitedly, glancing at his friend for confirmation.  At Scott’s nod, he rushed on with the rest of the theory.  “He’s experienced death but he hasn’t been emotionally invested in the person who died.”

            “So?” Peter prompted.

            “Sooo, the ghost-thing is going for the maximum bang for its buck,” Stiles concluded.  “It’s looking for a specific reaction.  If you have a personal experience, it’ll draw on that to get the stronger reaction.  If you don’t, it goes right for the horror movie scenario like it did with Scott, so it can at least get a rise out of you that way.  It’s got something to do with whatever’s happening when it touches you, doesn’t it?”

            “It’s feeding,” Peter confirmed, looking pleased with the teen.  Shit, Stiles didn’t like the rush of happy that shot through him in response to the man’s approval.  “It’s feeding on the emotions that we produce during its little nightmare scenarios.”  Peter’s gaze turned expectant again.  “What about its choice of horror movie?” he questioned.  “Mad Molly and room 313?”

            “Uh.  They’re not real?”  Stiles offered, annoyed that the werewolf was still asking questions instead of _explaining_.  At his words, there was a loud shriek from outside and something slammed against the door, rattling it in its frame.  “Jesus!” the teen shouted, as the others turned to stare at the now-shaking door.  “They’re not real,” he quickly continued, “but they’re a popular story.  Half the town probably thinks that all that bullshit about some patient cutting people’s eyes out is real.”  The door shook harder.

            “They _believe_.”  Peter looked satisfied, and Stiles still had no fucking idea what was going on.

            Apparently Derek shared his frustration.  “Get to the point, Peter!” he snarled, fixing his red gaze on his uncle.

            The elder Hale gave a long-suffering sigh, as if wondering why he was forced to put up with these idiots, and replied simply, “It’s a poltergeist.”

            “I thought you said it wasn’t a ghost!” Stiles growled in annoyance.

            Peter shot him an exasperated glare.  Oh right, _he_ was the one who was aggravated by this conversation.  Jerk.  “Poltergeists aren’t ghosts,” Peter explained.  “They’re… spirits made of negative energy.  They come into being where there’s a strong emotional convergence.”

            “Emotional convergence?” Scott asked, alternating between worried glances at the shaking door and frustrated glares at Peter.

            “Essentially, belief.  Enough people believe, then the poltergeist becomes real.”

            “Believe?”  Stiles thought Peter’s crazy was finally overtaking him.  “What, like, clap your hands, ‘I do believe in fairies’?”  He demonstrated, banging the knuckles of his otherwise full hands together.

            “Don’t give it ideas,” Peter told him, looking serious enough that Stiles stopped mid-motion.

            “So you’re saying,” Isaac began, “that because enough people believed the creepy abandoned insane asylum had a crazy ghost named Mad Molly who liked to cut people’s eyes out, now she actually exists?”

            “Exactly,” Peter answered. 

            “Only in frigging Beacon Hills,” Stiles muttered.

            Peter ignored him.  “The poltergeist comes into being from a nightmare that’s _too_ real, and then, so it can continue to exist, it brings _the nightmares_ to life.  It survives by aggravating and feeding off a person’s negative emotions – their fear, their anger, their guilt – until they’re so out of touch with reality that they’ll believe in it unconditionally.  It prefers to be your specific personal demon because that gets the bigger response, but if that fails, it’ll default to the image that called it forth in the first place.  That’s why I didn’t want to give you any theories earlier.  If this one turned out to be right, but you got another one stuck in your head, the poltergeist would have used that to create a new nightmare scenario to try to trap us.”

            A thought suddenly struck Stiles.  “Hey, if it’s just a creation of our minds, does that mean it can’t hurt us?” he asked hopefully.  “I mean, it didn’t _actually_ hurt Derek.”

            Scott perked up at this suggestion.  “Yeah, and my mom said the only injuries the other victims had were self-inflicted.”

            Peter shook his head.  “But it wanted those other victims as a power source, so it makes sense that it wouldn’t physically hurt them.  Unfortunately, I think we’ve upset it.”  The door shuddered beneath a particularly strong blow as if to emphasize his point.  “If it can’t control us then we’re of no value to it, so it probably doesn’t mind hurting us at this point.  And based on what I know about poltergeists, the stronger they get, the more real they become, and the more they’re able to affect their surroundings.  From your description of the crazed state of those victims, Scott, and from the way it’s acting now, I’d guess that it’s still got a connection to them and is still drawing power.  I think it’s well on its way to being a real threat and is quite capable of hurting us now, or soon will be.”

            “So how do we get rid of it?” Derek ground out, clearly running out of the little patience that remained to him.

            “It’s a creature of belief.  We stop believing,” Peter replied simply, unconcerned with his nephew’s annoyance.

            “That’s it?” Stiles asked incredulously.  “That can’t be it.”

            “You’re right,” Peter replied and pointed at the teen.  “Specifically, _you_ need to stop believing, Stiles.”

            “What?!  Why me?”

            “Because you’ve already done it.”  At their blank looks the older wolf rolled his eyes.  “It tried to pull each of us into its nightmare.  The only one it didn’t succeed with was you, Stiles.”

            “Scott seemed to be holding his own-” Stiles tried, beginning to feel a little panicked beneath the contemplative gazes that were being turned his way.

            Peter interrupted him.  “Scott still believed it was the ghost of Mad Molly, he just wasn’t as emotionally invested in that particular scenario as the rest of us – no personal connection.  And considering his recent history – no particular shock from meeting a psychotic ghost.  But even without a crippling fear, he _believed_.”  Scott was slowly nodding, looking upset that he was actually agreeing with the older wolf.  “ _You_ saw right through it.  You didn’t believe; you _knew_ that it wasn’t your mother.  More than that, haven’t you noticed?  We’ve only managed to find everyone when _you_ decided that we needed to find them – when you bent the circumstances to your will.  I’m sure you’ve felt how much the poltergeist dislikes you, Stiles.  It hates you for a reason – because you’re a threat to it.”

            Stiles huffed out a short, dry laugh, feeling completely in over his head.  “Assuming I buy this, which right now, I really don’t, what am _I_ supposed to do about it?”

            Peter’s answer was typically unhelpful.  “Exactly what you have been doing, only more.”  When Stiles shook his head in frustration, Peter stepped close to him and captured his gaze in an intense stare.  “Have you ever needed to _believe_ in something, Stiles?  Believe in it so hard, so clearly, that it just had to happen?”

            Stiles started to shake his head again, but stopped and nodded instead.  “Last year,” he said slowly, pulling up the memory.  “With the kanima…Deaton.  He wanted me to put up a mountain ash circle.  He told me that I needed to believe in it for it to work.  Said something about how ‘the best golfers never swing without first imagining where they want the ball to go – they see it in their mind and their mind takes over.’  And then when I was making the circle, I ran out of ash like fifty feet before the end, and I…I just closed my eyes and believed, and when I opened them… I’d finished the circle.”

            Peter’s eyes flared in triumph.  “ _That_ is exactly what you need to do now.”

            Stiles snorted.  “This is a lot different that walking a circle of dust.  You’re telling me to believe a ghost _out_ of existence – when it’s right in front of me, trying to kill me.”

            “It will require a great deal of focus,” Peter conceded.  “And a great deal of strength behind your emotions.  Luckily for you I happen to have some experience in this area.”  When their gazes demanded further explanation, the werewolf sighed.  “It’s part of what I did to Lydia to solicit her help in my resurrection.  I manipulated her mind into believing something that wasn’t really there.”

            Stiles glared at the man.  “You’re an asshole.  This is supposed to convince me to accept your ‘help’?”

            Peter gave him a look.  “Regardless of your feelings on my past actions, the point is that I _can_ help.  I can amplify your thoughts.”

            Derek forestalled Stiles’ growing anger by asking a question more pertinent to the situation.  “But those were different conditions with Lydia, because you were using a psychic connection that I’m guessing wasn’t too different from the poltergeist…”  Peter shrugged and denied nothing.  “The only way you could do that now, physically, would be… Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”  The growl had grown again in the alpha’s voice as if he were angry with the other wolf.

            Peter’s eyes narrowed in defiance.  “Once again, do you have a better idea?  At the rate we’re going it’ll either get into our heads again or we’ll be stuck in that maze it’s created for eternity.”

            “Suggesting what?  What are you suggesting?” Stiles asked, not liking that they were talking about him when he didn’t understand what they were talking about.

            “There’s a thing werewolves can do,” Peter answered almost dismissively, as if it were no big deal.  “It involves taping into the nervous system.  It’s usually used to share memories.”

            Scott’s brow furrowed as he connected the dots.  “Is this like what you did to me in the locker room last year?”

            “Yes.  Only instead of giving or taking memories I would tap into Stiles’ immediate emotions and boost them.”

            “This is that whole claws in the back of the neck thing, isn’t it?” Stiles asked, a tinge of panic lacing his words.  “I don’t think I like this idea.  Sounds kind of dangerous.  No, you know what, I _definitely_ don’t like this idea.”  He took a step back from Peter.

            “You’ll be fine,” Peter told him, but the man’s eyes were sparkling in a way Stiles definitely did not like.

            Derek was still giving his uncle the evil eye, but he also added, “Stiles, I don’t think we have much of a choice.”

            “He’s right, dude,” Scott gave his two cents, “We’re running out of options.”  Isaac nodded in agreement, too focused on the shuddering door to offer more.

            “Does it have to be him?” Stiles knew he was whining but the small smile on Peter’s lips was really beginning to unnerve him, and the thought of Peter in his head was outright terrifying.  “Couldn’t you or Scott do it?” he asked Derek desperately.

            “He knows how to do it.  I don’t really.  Scott definitely doesn’t.  It would be even more dangerous if we tried doing it.  It’s got to be Peter.”  Derek did not look happy saying the words, which didn’t calm Stiles any.

            “And how do _you_ know how to do this?” he asked the psycho-wolf.

            Peter shrugged.  “It’s an ancient practice used mostly by alphas since it’s a skill that requires quite a bit of practice.  One slip, and you could paralyze someone.  Or kill them.”

            That was reassuring.  “But you’ve had a lot of practice, right?”

            “Well, I’ve never paralyzed anyone,” Peter told him with a slight smirk.

            Stiles nodded distractedly before the words sank in.  “Wait, does that mean that you…”

            “Umm, guys,” Isaac suddenly broke into the conversation.  “We need to make a decision, like, now.”  His gaze was fixed on the floor by the door and they all turned to see what he was staring at.  A wind had started to puff from the crack beneath the door.  Even as they watched the salt line began to bow toward them.

            “It’ll be through soon,” Peter said, all business now.  “You three need to keep it away from Stiles – as soon as it realizes what we’re attempting it’ll go after him.”  He glanced at the teen in question.  “Stiles give Isaac your gun; you’re not going to be able to use it while we do this.”  Stiles’ fingers tightened reflexively on his shotgun – he suddenly felt like it was his only lifeline.  Very reluctantly, he let the other teen take the weapon from his hands and turned over the rest of his ammo.

            Derek watched Stiles’ nervous gesture then turned a searching look on his uncle.  “Couldn’t someone else do this?”

            Peter, in the midst of taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, shot his nephew an exasperated glare.  “Do _you_ like your chances of breaking free if that thing gets in your head again?”  He gave the alpha a moment to think that over and when the man’s gaze darkened he smiled.  “Didn’t think so.  It’s Stiles or no one.”  He glanced to where Scott and Isaac had already taken up positions on either side of the shuddering door then fixed his nephew with a serious gaze.  “Protect Stiles until we stop it, or until…”  He left the rest unsaid, but knew that his meaning was clear. 

            Derek nodded shortly, but paused before moving away.  “Get the job done, Peter,” he told his uncle in a low, threatening voice, “and get out.  Don’t try messing with his head.  Remember my warning about hurting him.”

            Peter’s eyes were just a little too bright as he shot the alpha a humorless smile.  “Banish the thought, dear nephew.  The connection I have to use to enhance his emotions is a two-way one.  I have to give as much as I get.  Anything I try to put in or take out of his mind will require an equal response from my own.  And you know I like to keep my thoughts to myself.”

            Derek snorted, but accepted the words and moved away to take his place between the two betas.

            Peter turned to the teen left shifting nervously behind him.  “Okay,” Stiles babbled in a harsh whisper as Peter lifted the duffel bag from his shoulders and dropped it unceremoniously to the ground, “I want to go on record here to say that I _really_ don’t like this idea.”  The teenager clutched his flashlight with both hands, his knuckles turning white with the strength of his grip.  “For one thing, I’ve had quite enough claw action from you today.  And, well, this whole thing with the claws in my neck, it’s making me think of needles, and I don’t do well with needles…”

            “Stiles, relax.”  Peter made a placating gesture with his hands, which would have been more reassuring if his claws weren’t out and his eyes weren’t glowing.  “This will work better if you’re calm.  I’m not going to hurt you.”

            Stiles snorted derisively.  “Calm, right.”  He licked his lips and his gaze flickered to the other werewolves and the shaking door.   “You won’t hurt me?” he added.   He’d meant the question to sound more scornful, but it came out sounding uncomfortably sincere.

            “Promise,” Peter told him with a small smile.  He paused a beat then added, “Except for the excruciating pain of course.”

            At that moment the last of the salt rushed from the entry and the door swung open with a loud crack, startling Stiles and making him whirl around.  Momentarily distracted by the sight of the Mad Molly-geist rushing through the door in a swirling, glowing whirlwind, it took a moment for the older man’s words to sink in.  When they did, Stiles’ eyes widened and he began to turn back toward Peter.  “Wait, what?”  The question had barely cleared his lips before he felt Peter’s hand clamp down on the back of his neck and the wolf’s claws plunge into his skin.

            Instantly the world crashed down upon him.


	7. Chapter 7

            It felt like lightning traveling up his spine, setting every neuron in his brain on fire – the memories and emotions of seventeen years of existence suddenly shaken awake and crammed into one impossibly long moment.  Every sense was on overload, every thought was one too many.

_(He watched his dad sitting at the dining room table in the middle of the night, his head in his hands, an empty glass and mostly-empty bottle beside him.  The man’s shoulder’s shook and nine-year old Stiles knew that his dad was crying though he made no sound.  Stiles wanted to do something, anything, to make him stop, but there was nothing he could do to make the gaping wound in their lives any smaller.  It hurt so much without her.  Everything hurt.  Hurt to sleep.  Hurt to be awake.  Hurt to breathe.  Stiles couldn’t breathe.  Why couldn’t he breathe?)_

            He was drowning.  Stiles scrambled for purchase – seeking something solid in the cacophony, but he just couldn’t seem to find it.  He couldn’t separate a single thought from the whole overwhelming entirety.

            ( _“You want us to go as what?” Isaac asked, his brow raised in doubt, as he shoved books into his locker._

_Scott was smiling his crooked grin.  “I kind of like it.”_

_Isaac snorted.  “Yeah, you’re not the one Derek and Peter will eviscerate for dressing like a hunter.”_

_“Pshaw,” Stiles dismissed his concerns.  “Come on, this is going to be an awesome Halloween!”)_

            He was supposed to be _doing_ something.  Something important.  But the knowledge eluded him, shuffled away by every other memory and thought and dream and nightmare that he’d ever known.

_(He walked through dark corridors, endless and unchanging.  He was looking for something, but he didn’t know what it was.  A voice sounded at his back._

_“Hey, baby.”_

_Stiles turned, relief burning through him.  He’d found her.  “Mom.”_

_“It’s alright, Stiles.  I forgive you for killing me.”  She gave him that heartbreaking smile and his heart fucking broke.)_

            And some he hadn’t.

            ( _He stood outside the gate, frantically trying to tear it open as the reaching hands begged him and the hungry flames licked his clothes.  The fucking hunters had somehow slipped in as he’d scouted ahead outside the tunnel, looking for an ambush that he now knew had never been the goal.  The way was barred, with their own gates meant to withstand the strength of even rival packs, with locks wrapped round with wolfsbane, promising to sap his strength if he reached them, and with a line of mountain ash that kept his clawing hands inches away from his family even though he strained to reach them.  He was wild, fierce, and utterly helpless.  He stared into terrified eyes and knew he’d never find a way to get them out, though he continued desperately to try.  He heard voices begging him to leave before he became trapped too, but he never pulled away, even as pleas turned to screams.  He could feel the heat searing into him, burning him, even as he smelled their burning flesh._   _He heard a groan from above, looked up in time to see the fiery ceiling of the room falling toward him.  Had time for one despairing howl before flame and wood hit him sending him into a never-ending blackness.)_

            “Stiles, focus.” 

            Maybe it was the voice, or maybe it was the foreign memory that had invaded his mind, but the words sliced through the thick chaos of scattered thoughts, giving him a path, a fixed point to reach out for.  And then it was _Peter_ that filled the teen’s world.

            Stiles was abruptly aware of Peter as he had never been before.  The werewolf stood behind him and to the side, Stiles’ left shoulder pressed into the man’s chest.  The teen could tell that it was Peter’s right hand buried in his neck, could feel it like a fiery agony burning along his spine.  The wolf’s left arm was across Stiles’ chest, his hand clamped onto the boy’s opposite shoulder, pulling Stiles against him with an easy, unconscious strength.  Stiles liked that strength, the confidence in it, the same confidence that bled into the man’s every action.  He liked the heat too that radiated from the wolf’s body, like a fire warming his back.  Peter’s face was beside his, and the man’s lips just brushed against his ear.  That damned stubble rubbed against his cheek again, sending little shivers across his skin with every rough scrape. 

            But it was far more than a mere physical presence that pervaded his thoughts – Stiles could _feel_ Peter, in some all-encompassing, intangible way.  He could taste him – smoky and heady like his dad’s good whiskey that he’d once snuck a sip of.  He could smell him – that scent he sometimes caught from the man, the one that he was never quite sure was real or was something his mind had created based on all he knew of the wolf, like old blood and old books, pine needles, soil and smoke.  He could hear him in his bones – the steady tattoo of his heart and the even rush of his breath.  He could even sense a hint of the emotions usually hidden so well behind those cold eyes – the rustling of a burning fury, the distant howl of an unending grief, the discordant, jagged edges of a broken psyche.

            Stiles leaned a little closer.  The sensations that were Peter were strange and rich and thrilling.  It was odd, feeling so much of someone who wasn’t himself, and Stiles thought he just might get lost in the man.  The experience was utterly terrifying but in that moment Stiles _wanted_ it with his entire soul.

            “Focus on the _poltergeist_.”  Peter’s voice spoke again, a smile in his tone.  The words flicked another switch in Stiles’ head, snapping his attention back to his full surroundings.

            They were still in the tiny cell that was room 313 and it seemed that only seconds had passed though Stiles would have sworn it was a lifetime.  The others had surrounded the poltergeist, keeping it distracted from Stiles and Peter.  It looked like the thing was confused, unsure of whom to focus the brunt of its attention upon.  It turned from one werewolf to the next, its form shifting to the ghost that haunted each, but changing too quickly to have any real affect.  Then it stopped, growing still before a sudden, violent shudder ran through it.  It split, like a skin peeled away from an orange, and then there were two Mad Mollys standing where the one had been.  Then again, shudder, split, and now there were three.  They each picked a wolf and began to advance.

            “That’s … not good,” Stiles said with difficulty, trying to adjust to the pain of Peter’s claws in his neck now that he wasn’t distracted by his own weird thoughts.

            “Mmm,” Peter hummed in agreement.  Because he was so near, the soft sound sent unsettling vibrations along the teenager’s skin.  Unsettling too was the connection that yet flowed between them, tickling in his mind like an itch Stiles couldn’t reach and still burning a fiery path along his nerves.  “Perhaps you should do something about it,” the wolf murmured.

            “How?” Stiles gasped.  He could see Derek grappling with one of the poltergeists, and as Stiles watched it shifted into Laura Hale, making the alpha momentarily falter as he tried to push her away.  The specter slashed out with clawed hands and left a gash across Derek’s cheek that sluggishly began to heal.  At Derek’s side, Scott was trying to attack a Mad Molly, only to have her disappear beneath his claws and reappear at his back where she added a vicious slash to his costumed wounds.  Okay, so the poltergeist could definitely hurt them. 

            Right in front of Stiles and Peter, Isaac stood with the shotgun, facing off against the pissed-off looking specter of his father.  The beta must have already used the last salt shot while Stiles was out of it, because when he fired the gun, the ghost only paused as a hole blew through it and then took up its advance again, the hole sealing itself within moments.  Isaac made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, dropped the gun and launched himself at his ghost-father with claws extended. 

            “Believe, Stiles.  Focus and believe,” Peter said against his ear.  It was weird – the connection, though not as overwhelming as it had been in those first moments, was still whispering insights into the wolf’s thoughts.  Stiles could feel the man’s tension, like a tightly coiled spring ready to snap at any moment.  But he could also feel a strange sort of trust, a belief in _Stiles_ that he could do what was being asked of him.  It was oddly reassuring.  Especially when the poltergeist fighting Scott suddenly seemed to notice them, shuddered, and split off a doppelganger that began to stalk toward them.

            Stiles started, pressing back against Peter as the approaching specter’s features melted and shifted until the teen was staring at the sad face of his mother.

            “Baby, why are you trying to hurt me?” she asked, pain filling her words.  Beneath her dark gaze a tidal wave of pain and loss and guilt swept over Stiles.

            For one horrible instant the teenager felt his heart clench and his world threatened to tumble into pieces, but then his mind gave up one last flashing recollection.

_(She was cooking dinner.  Stiles followed her around the kitchen, trying his best to help, though he could barely reach the countertop.  His dad would be home from work soon and he wanted to be a part of this.  Wanted his dad’s smile when he saw the wonderful meal they’d made and when he heard how much of a help Stiles had been.  She gazed down at him, laughing, knowing what he was trying to do._

_In her twinkling amber eyes Stiles saw a love so deep that he knew he’d never find the bottom of it.  Knew that no matter what he did or thought he did, she would never, ever blame him for it._

_“You’re such a good boy, Stiles.”)_

            “No,” Stiles whispered at the poltergeist, and that one word stopped the tidal wave in its tracks.  The teenager’s eyes narrowed with a fierce, growing anger.

            “Good boy,” he thought he heard Peter murmur.  He could feel the man’s smile in his mind.  And wasn’t that an unsettling sensation.

            But Stiles didn’t have time to worry about the psychopath in his head.  He knew now _exactly_ what needed to be done.  Very briefly, because this was how his mind worked even in crazy-ass situations, Stiles was tempted to launch into a certain movie speech – one that began with “Through dangers untold…” and ended with “You have no power over me,” but the rest of the speech wasn’t wholly appropriate to the situation.  So he opted to get to the point with a much shorter, “You are not real.”  If his words took on the familiar rhythm once used by a certain wizard to order a demon of flame and shadow not to pass, he doubted that anyone was likely to notice.  If he was going to be the god-damned hero of this little adventure, than he was damned-well going to sound cool doing it.

            As Stiles spoke those four words, his mind poured utter confidence behind every syllable, and that conviction abruptly became infinitely larger, caught up, focused and amplified by the werewolf at his back and in his mind.

            The poltergeist (all four pieces of it) screamed.  The building rocked around them, walls creaking dangerously, the floor rolling beneath their feet.  The specters all turned on Stiles, their faces twisting into hideous unrecognizable masks.  They advanced on him with fangs bared and claws extended.  Although he could feel their hatred clawing at his mind again, Stiles remained calm, somehow grounded by the steady sound of Peter’s breathing in his ear.  “You are not real,” the teen repeated, and as he spoke the words, he _believed_ with a certainty he had rarely known in his life.  Beside him he felt Peter let out one long, slow exhale.  The smile in his mind became downright smug.

            The poltergeists stopped dead and everything was impossibly still for one long moment, before they exploded abruptly with a rush of wind and a flare of fiery light.  As he squinted against the glare, Stiles felt something cool and slimy splatter over him. When they could all see again, they found themselves in an empty, strangely plain-looking room.  A room with _windows_.  A room that opened into a perfectly normal, slightly crumbling, short hallway with a staircase at the end.

            “Is it gone?” Isaac asked, glancing nervously around.

            Derek too was surveying their surroundings with a narrowed gaze. “I think so.”

             “You know, just a thought…” Stiles offered, “but ‘don’t assume the monster’s dead’ is another very big rule of horror movies.”

            They all froze, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Nothing happened.

            “It’s Deaton’s problem now,” Peter concluded.  He retracted his claws from Stiles’ neck abruptly.

            “Oww,” the teen muttered, wobbling at the release.  It was not only the pain of the wounds that made him unsteady but the sudden unnerving sensation of _loss_ in his mind as well.  The arm that had been across Stiles’ chest slid to his waist, steadying him and drawing him just a little closer.  As soon as the teen regained his footing, he batted the hand away and took a few steps back, glaring at the werewolf.  Peter raised his hands in a placating motion, smirking as he too stepped away.  His smirk only widened as he met Derek’s irritated gaze.  Stiles was grateful for the alpha’s irritation, because as usual Scott missed Peter’s antics completely as he popped his head out the door to survey the quiet hallway.  Why did his friend never notice the blatant sexual harassment that Stiles had to suffer?

            “Eww,” Stiles groaned a second later when he realized that he was covered in poltergeist goo.  The others made matching faces of disgust as they too realized that they were covered in slime.  They each did their best to wipe the substance from their clothes, and no, Stiles definitely wasn’t jealous of Peter’s handkerchief now.  Not at all, thank you very much.

            “Do you think Deaton will be able to handle the poltergeist if it comes back?” Scott asked worriedly as he flicked a glob of goo from his shoulder.

            “He can always call his sister to help,” Peter replied dismissively, retrieving his jacket (which had miraculously escaped gooing) and scooping Stiles’ duffel and shotgun from the floor.  The teen snatched them away from him with another glare.

            “Sister?” Isaac questioned, watching Peter and Stiles with an odd look.

            “Marin Morrell,” Peter told him.

            “Ms. Morrell?” Stiles asked incredulously.  “She’s an emissary too?”

            “Yes?”  Clearly Peter didn’t understand why Stiles was shocked.

            “Our guidance counselor?” Stiles’ hands flailed dangerously, swinging gun, bag, and flashlight as he tried to make his point.  “Why the hell don’t you people tell me any of this stuff, huh?  I shared some really intimate details with her.”

            “And did she give you good advice?” Derek asked in exasperation.

            Stiles was caught off guard by the question.  “Actually, yeah.”

            “That’s what they do.  Get over it,” the alpha told him.  “Let’s get out of here.”  He stalked from the room, apparently done with the whole lot of them.  Isaac was close on his heels.  Scott shrugged at Stiles and ducked out the door.

            Stiles sighed and moved to follow, but was brought up short by Peter’s hand on his arm.  The teenager swallowed nervously as he met the older man’s intense blue gaze.  The wolf’s crooked smile didn’t help his rising feeling of panic.  Stiles had really hoped he’d have a chance to _think_ about the night’s events before he had to deal with the werewolf one on one.

            “Your mind is a fascinating place,” Peter told him.

            Stiles felt heat rush to his cheeks.  “How so?” The teenager rasped from a suddenly dry mouth.  In all the excitement of the poltergeist’s demise, Stiles hadn’t really thought about what Peter might have read from him.  If anything, he’d been more curious about the glimpses that he’d caught from the older man, but he’d planned on contemplating those fragments when he was far away from both the creepy asylum and the creepy werewolf.  Now he was faced with the far more terrifying prospect of wondering what Peter had glimpsed of him – it could have been anything from movie references, to private memories, to highly uncomfortable thoughts about the man himself. 

            Peter smiled at him enigmatically and walked out the door, leaving Stiles feeling more unsettled than he had facing down the poltergeist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that'll teach me to try to rewrite a chapter while dealing with a cold. First Stiles started fighting Peter, then Peter was acting mean...Needless to say we had to have a few time outs before this got to a form I liked. lol. Hope it all makes sense. :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken a bit to post. I've been in winter hell for the last week - which means, snow, and ice, and falling tree limbs, and power outages (for 6 days!), and flooded (newly renovated) basements, and cold, cold, cold! None of which were conducive for re-writing Peter's part of this chapter. He has very high standards.

            Silence fell over the Jeep as they drove away from the Sanatorium, and it immediately began to grate on Stiles’ nerves.  The others were all too quiet, too serious, too wrapped up in morose thought.  Even the creeper hadn’t spoken a word since settling into his seat, not even to harass Stiles.  Peter simply sat, unnaturally still, his narrowed eyes watching the passing scenery with an icy stare.  In the backseat Derek wore a characteristically sour expression and Isaac looked like a kicked puppy.  The whole depressed atmosphere was definitely _not_ helping Stiles to put the freaky events of the night out of his mind.  Finally the teen just couldn’t take it anymore.  “Dudes!” he burst out.  “Why do you all look like someone stole your Halloween candy?  That was a win!  We totally kicked Casper’s ass!”

            “Maybe because ‘Casper’ pulled up some of our most traumatic ghosts?” Derek suggested dryly, his sour gaze now directed at the teen.

            “And poltergeist, not ‘Casper’,” Peter reminded him, a flicker of mocking amusement lightening his expression.

            Stiles ignored him.  “Huh, you don’t see Scott sulking,” he told them.  He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he glanced at the rearview mirror to see if Scott was still following on his bike.

            “You can’t see Scott at all with his helmet on,” Isaac pointed out.

            “Not to mention that Scott didn’t exactly have to deal with ‘traumatic ghosts’,” Derek added, apparently still really hung up on the specters that the poltergeist had subjected them to.

            “I don’t know.  I found Molly pretty traumatic,” Stiles told him with a grin.  When this only darkened Derek’s expression, the teen rolled his eyes.  “Sheesh.  You know what we need?  Some awesome music to get us in the Halloween mood.”  They pulled up to a red light as he spoke, and Stiles hastily wiggled in his seat, attempting to retrieve his iPod from his pocket and trying to ignore Peter’s rapt gaze at his shimmying motions.

            “Please don’t,” he thought he heard Isaac mutter, but Stiles cheerfully ignored the plea as he succeeded in extracting the device and hastily scrolled through the options in search of the perfect playlist.  When he found the set he wanted, he popped the iPod into the docking station and settled back into his seat, an expectant smile on his face.

            A familiar melody started to drift from the Jeep’s speakers.  “Really?”  Derek groaned.

            “Hey, seems appropriate to me,” Stiles defended his music, head bopping to the beat.

            _/(Ghostbusters!)/If there's somethin' strange in your neighborhood/Who ya gonna call?/(Ghostbusters!)_

            “Not a ghost,” Peter reminded Stiles again, rolling his head against the headrest as he flashed a playful smile at the teen.

            Stiles grimaced.  “Yeah, but the theme to ‘Poltergeist’ it too ‘pretty’ to work as Halloween music,” he answered seriously.  “But the theme to ‘The Exorcist’ should be up next.”

            Peter snorted.  Stiles grinned at him before realizing what he was doing and hastily fixing his gaze back on the road.

            “You just missed the turn to head back to the loft,” Derek suddenly interrupted.

            “Nope.”  Stiles told him.  He could feel Derek’s glare drilling a hole in the back of his head, so he elaborated with a sigh.  “We’re not going to the loft.”

            “Stiles,” the alpha’s tone held a warning.

            “It’s almost 10,” Stiles snapped.  “I’m not missing anymore of Lydia’s party.  You’ll just have to live with it.  My car, my rules.  _You’re_ the one who wanted me to drive.”

            Derek crossed his arms, clearly not pleased by this reasoning.  “I told you I wasn’t going to the party.”

            “Come on,” Stiles wheedled.  “I’ve already got your costume.”  The teen reached across to the glove compartment, ignoring the brush of Peter’s leg against his arm as he withdrew a set of cheap plastic fangs.

            Peter raised his brows at the accessory.  “You want Derek to be a vampire?” he asked, a laugh dancing beneath the words.

            “He doesn’t even have to change!  He’s got the dark clothes, the leather jacket, the broody attitude.  It’s perfect!  All he needs are the fangs,” Stiles offered the choppers to the backseat triumphantly.

            The alpha took the plastic teeth with a smile, meeting Stiles’ gaze squarely in the rearview mirror.  Then he crushed the plastic in his hands, the smile dropping away.  “I’ve already got fangs,” Derek told him, flashing his as he let out a rumbling growl.

            Stiles was not impressed.  In fact his expression became downright mulish.  “I’m still taking us straight to Lydia’s.”  His tone was final.

            The alpha stared for a second before he abruptly settled back into his seat with a grumpy huff.  Well, in Stiles’ opinion, grumpiness was a far better attitude than the gloomy one he’d had just minutes ago. 

            Beside the teen, Peter watched his nephew’s aggravation with a smirk before he turned his gaze to Stiles.  “You can drop me off downtown,” he told Stiles.

            “Yeah,” Stiles drawled, “not happening.”

            “Excuse me?” Peter’s tone was politely dangerous.

            Stiles kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, afraid to meet the wolf’s gaze.  “I told you.  I’m not stopping.  I’m not even driving through downtown.  It’s straight on to Lydia’s for us.”

            “You want me to go to Lydia Martin’s party?” the werewolf asked.  Stiles made a noncommittal noise.  “Lydia hates me,” Peter stressed.

            The teenager shrugged.  “That’s your problem.”

            Peter’s expression turned incredulous as if he couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of Stiles’ mouth.  “You seriously expect me to go to some high school party and what… socialize with a bunch of teenagers?”

            Stiles pursed his lips in thought.   “Weeelll, if you’re worried about being the oldest person there, don’t.  Lydia was going to invite the queens again.  Turns out those lady-dudes are a heck of a lot of fun at a party.”  He shot the older man a cocky grin.

            Peter’s eyes narrowed.  “Stiles,” he said in a soft, deadly voice, “are you comparing me to a group of drag queens?”

            The smile disappeared from Stiles’ face.  “Of course not,” he answered as sincerely as possible, but a telling twinkle remained in his eyes.

            There was the sound of a snort hastily covered by a cough from the backseat.  Peter glared at the rearview mirror but couldn’t tell if the sound had come from Derek or Isaac – both wore expressions that were far too bland to be real.

            “Look,” Stiles finally proclaimed to the car in general, “Halloween is my favorite holiday and I’m not missing any more of it.  We’re all going to the party.  What you do there is entirely up to you.”  And that was the end of it.

            The rest of the drive was spent in silence, except for the various strains of Halloween-inspired music.  At least the mood was less mopey than it had been at the start of the ride.  Stiles ignored the others’ disgruntled attitudes and nodded along happily to his soundtrack.  _Finally_ he was going to get his long-awaited Halloween celebrations!

            They pulled into Lydia’s driveway a short time later, Scott pulling up behind them.  The others lingered in the Jeep for several minutes, griping about Stiles’ insistence that they have fun or Stiles’ choice of music.  By the time Stiles had finished debating with Isaac and Peter the merits of “Thriller” versus “Black Widow” as best Vincent Price guest vocal, Scott had wandered up to the Jeep, his phone to his ear.

            “No, that’s great, Mom.  Thanks for letting me know,” he was saying as they climbed out of the Jeep.  After he’d said his goodbyes and hung up, Stiles jumped on him for info.

            “What did your mom want?  Please tell me she doesn’t have a lead on a chainsaw wielding psycho or a hockey-masked murder.  Cause they can just wait until tomorrow!”  Stiles may have sounded a little psychotic himself at the thought of something _else_ getting in the way of his Halloween.

            “No,” Scott hastily reassured him, “she was calling to tell me that the poltergeist victims all snapped back to reality about twenty minutes ago.  Most are going to need some serious therapy, but it looks like the poltergeist’s link was severed when you blew it up.”  He clapped his friend on the shoulder.  “Way to go, Stiles.”

            “Oh,” Stiles blinked at the unexpected good news.  “Well that’s okay then.”  He took a moment to bask in his awesomeness before suddenly shaking his head.  “Why are we standing here?  Let’s get to the party already!”  He waved his hands to herd them all toward the front door.

            “Stiles,” the quiet voice from behind him made the teen freeze as the others moved ahead.  Suddenly he had to fight a nervous shiver from traveling up his spine.  He turned to find Peter still standing by the Jeep.  The man’s cool eyes were fixed on Stiles, their expression unreadable.  “Do you really want me to come to this party?” the wolf asked.

            Stiles’ mind flailed for an answer.  Honestly he didn’t _know_ what he wanted.  Or maybe he just didn’t want to admit what he wanted.  And wasn’t that a scary thought?  Tonight had been weird, and the teen had a feeling that he’d be dealing with the repercussions of it for a while to come, but at the moment, he was pretty sure that all he really wanted was to enjoy whatever was left of his night.  “Dude,” he finally said tiredly, turning back toward the house, “it’s your choice.  I’m not stopping you from leaving.”  Yeah, he’d chickened out.  Well, mostly.  Stiles’ hand crept to the wire at his waist and twisted.  His tail swished.

            A second later he felt more than heard Peter come up to his side.  “Remember, Stiles,” the man purred, “it was your choice.”

            There was no fighting the shiver up his spine this time.

            Stiles almost walked right into Isaac because he was so distracted by Peter.  The other teenager had trailed behind Scott and Derek and had apparently stopped to give Stiles and Peter yet another odd look.  Stiles was growing annoyed by that mysterious expression.  “What?” he asked in exasperation.

            Isaac looked between the two of them for a long moment, before finally saying, “Nothing,” and turning to continue up the drive, leaving Stiles feeling like he’d missed something.

            When they reached the door, they took a few seconds to admire the Hollywood-movie-set-level of skill that had gone into decorating Lydia’s house.  If they hadn’t just had to contend with an _actual_ haunted building, Stiles might have thought that they were about to enter a true house of horrors.  Cobwebs, strobe lighting, fog machines, creepy shadows and sounds - Lydia’s house had it all.  Lydia certainly knew how to throw a Halloween party.  God, Stiles loved the girl.

            After a few moments spent absorbing the magnificent sight, Stiles pushed his way to the front of their group and rang the bell.  Several seconds passed before the door swung sharply open to reveal an annoyed looking Lydia.  “You’re late,” she told them.  Stiles was forced to take another moment to admire her costume before he could form the words necessary to answer her.  She’d decided to dress as a Mad Hattress – her way of thumbing her nose at everyone who still whispered about her bout of insanity behind her back.  The costume consisted of a bright, teal-blue, vest-like corset and a ruffled mini-skirt over white and pink striped stockings and hot pink stilettos.  A small, teal top-hat fascinator with a huge pink bow and the requisite hatter tag was perched atop her red hair.  The whole costume was over the top, and absolutely stunning.

            “We had to … take a detour,” Stiles finally managed to get out.  Lydia grimaced, clearly not satisfied with this vague answer but stepped aside so that they could enter.

            Allison appeared at Lydia’s side.  She was dressed in a classic “sexy nurse” costume that actually leaned a little more toward cute than sexy since neither the skirt nor the neckline were all that low.  But considering the sort of innocent-vibe Allison usually rocked, the costume worked perfectly on her.  Plus, it fit with Scott’s costume because nurse-Allison could “treat” mutilated-Scott’s werewolf wounds.  “Wow, you actually managed to get Derek here,” she said smiling at Scott as he crossed the threshold.

            “I know!” Stiles answered triumphantly, trying to distract himself from the mushy expression his best friend was making at the sight of Allison.  “Boyd owes us twenty bucks.”

            “Stiles!” Scott whispered loudly, shooting the alpha a nervous look.  Derek glowered at all of them, but didn’t turn around and walk out the door, so Stiles wasn’t too concerned.

            Suddenly Lydia stiffened beside him, and Stiles glanced back to see that Peter had stepped up to the doorway.  “You,” Lydia said tightly.

            “Me.”  Peter’s tone was flippant and Stiles felt a sudden urge to strangle the man.  _What_ had he been thinking bringing the psychopath to Lydia’s?

            Lydia’s eyes flashed.  “ _You,_ ” she practically growled.

            Peter’s eyes flickered and suddenly there was an air of almost-embarrassment and contrition about the man.  “Me,” he offered in a nearly apologetic tone.  Stiles blinked, startled by the subtle change in demeanor.

            Lydia folded her arms, not at all impressed.  “What are _you_ doing here?”

            Peter held his hands up in an appeasing gesture.  “It was not my idea, I assure you.”  When Lydia’s glare remained steady he sighed, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck in an almost nervous gesture.  “Would you like me to leave?” he proposed.  Stiles felt an unsettling wave of disappointment wash over him at the suggestion and immediately berated himself for it.  Why the heck did he want Peter here so much when the creep clearly upset Lydia, the girl who, oh yeah, was _actually_ Stiles’ friend?

            Lydia raked the wolf over with an assessing gaze for several long moments before suddenly pointing a finger at him.  “We just had the floors cleaned.  Are you planning on getting them _dirty_?”

            A small smile tugged at Peter’s lips as if in response to a joke that only he and Lydia understood.  “I will do my utmost not to,” he promised inclining his head slightly toward the girl.

            Lydia’s eyes narrowed.  “You’d better.  Or I’ll skin you for a new rug.”

            Peter’s smile grew.  “This is why you’re my second favorite.”

            The girl wrinkled her nose.  “Eww,” she said shortly before turning from the man with a flip of her hair and stalking into the next room.  Allison, Scott, and Isaac trailed after her, and Derek wandered off with a mutter of “already being tired of this party”.

            Stiles was left blinking in confusion.  He didn’t understand the conversation that had just taken place _at all_ , but he was pretty sure that he’d just witnessed Lydia’s and Peter’s version of a cease-fire.  It had been terrifying.

            “Stiles, my wolfy brother!”  The cheerful voice from behind snapped Stiles from his contemplation and made him spin in place to see the speaker.

            “Erica!” he called joyfully catching sight of the girl wending her way through the other revelers, with Boyd as her looming shadow trailing behind.  Erica was dressed in the twin to Stiles’ costume, if by twin he meant a black lace corset and mini-skirt, shredded fishnet stockings, and knee-high black boots with four inch heels.  Okay, so the only things they had in common were the furry ears and tail.  Stiles still thought that they rocked the wolf-look equally well.

            Erica raised a hand as she reached Stiles and the two teenagers launched into a spectacularly complex high-five that had nearby spectators watching them in bemusement.  Peripherally Stiles heard Peter question Boyd, “Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf?”  The quiet beta was dressed like something out of a renaissance faire, maybe a huntsman or a woodcutter.  The crowning piece to his costume was the brilliant scarlet cloak draped over his shoulders.

            Boyd snorted, “Right, you try calling Erica ‘big’.”  Peter smiled.

            Erica suddenly draped an arm over Stiles’ shoulders and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially in the boy’s ear as she walked him further into the house.  “Batman, you were so right about this costume, especially the tail.  Every time I swish it, Boyd turns into a kitten.” She mimed a cat batting at a string, then looked back at the furry appendage.  “Honestly, I’m tempted too.  It’s so much fun!”  She twisted the wire hidden at the waist of her skirt and watched the swishing motion of the tail with a happy smile.

            “Must be a wolf thing,” Stiles muttered, glancing back at Peter.  The man’s unnerving gaze was fixed on him, and Stiles was incredibly relieved when they passed out of his sight.  He _still_ had no clue how to deal with the man in the wake of the evening’s events.

            “What?” Erica asked.

            “Nothing,” Stiles replied quickly.

            A snide voice suddenly broke in on them.  “It’s about time you guys got here.  Lydia was getting impatient.”

            Stiles turned and immediately burst into laughter at the sight that greeted him.  “What the hell are you supposed to be, the Easter Bunny?” he gasped when he could catch his breath.  Jackson and Danny had come up behind them.  Jackson was dressed in a black button-up shirt and a teal vest and slacks.  On his hands were furry, black, paw-like gloves, on his face was make-up that gave a distinctly rabbit-like cast to his features, and on top of his head were two floppy black ears.

            Jackson glared.  “I’m the March Hare,” he told the other teens.  When this didn’t seem to appease Stiles’ laughter, he added defensively, “It was Lydia’s idea.”

            “I bet it was,” Stiles cackled.  He mimed a whipping motion, complete with sound effect.  Erica started to laugh at Stiles’ impression.

            Jackson’s face settled into an arrogant pout and he stalked away, clearly done socializing with those so far beneath him.  As he walked away, Stiles and Erica caught sight of a fluffy cotton tail and burst into fresh laughter.  Danny also watched him leave, fighting down a smile until his friend was out of sight.  Then he turned to Stiles.  “You’re not wrong,” he told him, his eyes twinkling.  “He’s still making up for the break-up last year.”

            “Good,” Stiles said with satisfaction.  Jackson would have to do a lot of penance before he was cleared from that particular sin in Stiles’ book.  He turned his attention back to Danny.  “So, Cheshire Cat?” he asked, examining the other teen’s costume.  Danny’s basic outfit was similar to Jackson’s – a button-up shirt, a vest, and slacks – but all were done in varying shades of purple ranging from a deep, rich violet, to a zippy magenta.  A set of cat ears was perched on Danny’s head and whiskers had been drawn on his cheeks.  Claw-like false nails were on the teen’s fingers and Stiles caught sight of a striped cat’s tail when Danny turned to snag a drink from a passing server.  (Of course Lydia’s parties were catered.)  From furry ears to shiny wingtips, Danny looked _good_.

            “What else?” Danny said, showing off the awesome costume with a couple half-turns.  “I liked the Wonderland theme.”

            “But not the Dormouse?” Stiles questioned.  “It would go with the whole tea party vibe Lydia and Jackson have going.”

            Danny shrugged and smiled serenely.  “I’m my own man.”

            “That’s cool.”  Stiles nodded in understanding.  The other boy certainly pulled off the cat-look.  And somehow the idea of a Cheshire-grin seemed to fit Danny’s subtly mischievous personality.

            Sudden pain flared as someone grabbed hold of Stiles’ ear and twisted.  “Stiles, a word please,” Lydia hissed, dragging him into the next room.  Danny waved a cheerful farewell as Erica trailed after them.

            “Ow, ow, ow, ow!” Stiles yelped as Lydia deposited him before Allison, Scott, Isaac, and Boyd in a room otherwise devoid of party-goers.  Erica slid up to Boyd’s side and he absently wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

            “ _What_ ,” Lydia growled, “is the deal with bringing that _psychopath_ to my party?”  She let go of Stiles’ ear, then glared at him, Scott, and Isaac each in turn.

            “I didn’t want to miss any more of the party,” Stiles whined rubbing at his sore ear.

            Allison looked concerned.  “But really _Peter_ , Stiles?”

            “I told you guys, it’s been a stressful night,” Scott defended him.

            “Stressful is one way to put it,” Stiles muttered.

            “Is that why you smell like blood?” Boyd asked.

            “Blood?!” Lydia and Allison asked in alarm.

            “I was wondering,” Erica admitted with curiosity, looking Stiles over.  “But I just assumed that you’d tripped or did something equally clumsy.”

            Stiles glared at her.  “Hey, I do that a lot less now, thanks.”  Erica smirked and Stiles’ nose wrinkled.  “Okay, somewhat less.”

            “You didn’t say Stiles was hurt,” Allison snapped, looking accusingly at Scott and Isaac.  The two boys appeared suddenly uncomfortable, and Stiles was amused to see Scott unconsciously turn on the kicked-puppy-dog eyes beneath Allison’s ire.  The girl lasted for all of a minute in the face of the contrite expression before she gave him a forgiving smile.

            Lydia spared a moment to roll her eyes at the two, before snapping her fingers at Stiles.  “Let’s see it,” she ordered.

            Reluctantly Stiles tugged at the collar of his shirt, showing the claw marks in his neck and shoulders that had crusted over with blood.  As if the sudden reminder of their presence was some sort of signal, the wounds instantly began to sting.  Lydia’s face darkened and she shot a glare back toward the front of her house where they had last seen Peter.  “It’s not what you think,” Stiles hurriedly said, not sure why he felt the need to defend the creeper.

            “You can explain while we patch you up, Stiles,” Allison told him.  “In fact you can explain the whole night, in great detail.”  She shot a look at Scott and Isaac again, making the two of them flinch.  Ouch.  Guess the puppy-dog eyes hadn’t worked as well as he’d thought.  “Lydia,” she continued, “where’s your first aid kit?”

            “Wow,” Stiles told her, somewhat dazed by the stern command of her tone so at odds with her adorable appearance, “you’re totally living up to your costume, Allison.”

            “Yeah, Allison,” Scott was still trying to make amends as he gave her a sweet smile, “you’d make a great nurse.”  Allison’s lips twitched despite her obvious effort to resist the puppy, and she quickly turned to follow after an exasperated Lydia in search of supplies.

            “Dude, your mom’s a nurse,” Stiles pointed out with a smirk.  That would teach his friend to flirt when he should be tending to Stiles.  He was in enough pain as it was without having to witness Scott McCall trying to woo a girl.

            “Stiles!” Scott yelped, his face going pale as he suddenly saw Allison’s costume in a whole new light.  He stumbled dazedly after the two girls, a horrified expression on his face.

            Isaac quietly gave Stiles a high five as soon as Scott’s back was turned, Erica winked at him and offered an arm to escort him, and Boyd just shook his head, his dark eyes silently laughing at them all.

            “Stiles, hurry up, I don’t want to spend my entire party bandaging you up,” Lydia snapped from the doorway.

            With a sigh, Stiles let Erica walk him out of the room.  He too hoped that first aid would not be his entire evening.  After all the stress and confusion that the evening had brought him, there was one thing that Stiles absolutely _needed_ tonight.

*****

            Peter sat midway up the staircase, overlooking the teeming mass of partygoers below.  From this vantage point he could see into several of the party rooms and out through the glass doors that opened onto the patio and pool.  The werewolf’s attitude was deceptively relaxed – he sat forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely between his legs.  To all appearances he seemed bored, his usually sharp eyes somewhat distant and unfocused as they gazed over the party.  But in truth, at that moment boredom was the least of Peter’s emotions.

            Under normal circumstances, the wolf would have found the various teenager micro-dramas occurring around him at least _somewhat_ entertaining.  And watching his nephew grow increasingly flustered by the amorous attentions of several of the queens should have amused him more.  But Peter was not quite in the right frame of mind to appreciate the evening’s entertainment. 

            The encounter with the poltergeist had … agitated him – stirring up memories and breaking his carefully maintained control.

            Peter abruptly clenched his right hand into a fist where it lay cradled in his left.  The wolf turned his gaze down to his hands, watching his fingers flex.  He remembered his claws sinking into soft flesh.  He remembered warm blood running over his skin.  He remembered her screams like sweet music.  And he remembered the taunts and the flames, the agony and the loss.  Peter felt the bite of his nails against his palm where they threatened to sharpen into claws, and the wolf wanted nothing more than to rend and rip and tear, and all of the bodies moving and chattering around him were increasingly looking like prey waiting for the slaughter.

            He drew a slow breath, trying to relax his tense muscles.  He stared at his hands, knowing that his eyes were flaring electric blue.  Peter’s fist tightened again, his control teetering precariously, his nails digging into the palm of his hand until he was sure he had broken the skin, just as he was sure that it was his fingers were now tipped with razor sharp claws.

            Suddenly the sensation of sinking his claws into flesh drew forth a different memory.  Peter smiled slowly.

            Stiles.

_(The boy’s skin even paler than usual in the washed-out world of shadows.  Eyes downcast, flickering, skittering everywhere, sliding across Peter’s face like the sight of him burned.  Body tense with fear and pain, the slightest of trembles vibrating beneath the wolf’s hands on the teen’s shoulders.  Breath quick and gasping, while the voice quivered, babbling sounds meaningless to Peter’s fury-muddled mind.  And the heartbeat…the heartbeat drumming so rapidly that it seemed to be trying to escape the chest that contained it.)_

            That heartbeat had filled Peter’s senses, had hummed in his ears and his fingertips and his veins, offering a strangely calming counterpoint to the roar of his rage.  In the months that he had been pursuing the teenager, the werewolf had grown very familiar with that heartbeat in all its various tempos and stutters.  It was a habit, a game, to find all the permutations of that rhythm, from the slow, even pulse of sleep to the quick, tempting throb of arousal.  The sound of it at that moment in the darkened asylum, skittering and frantic with fear, had given him something else to focus upon and had brought him back from the edge of his rage-fueled madness.  It had even provided an anchor through the remainder of the evening, serving as a distraction from the chaos awakened by the poltergeist.  The boy’s ability to offer such distraction was truly fascinating to the wolf.

            Peter closed his eyes now, the tension lessening in his muscles as he let the sounds of the party fade to the background and he searched for the distinctive heartbeat.  It was nearing midnight, the witching hour, and after nearly two hours of observing the inane socializing going on around him, Peter was ready for a distraction.  He’d spent much of the party watching Stiles – quietly observing first as the others had patched up the boy’s wounds, and then as Stiles had wandered about mixing with the guests.  The wolf had kept his distance, the sight of the teen alone was adequate to calm his restlessness.  In fact Peter’s only real amusement of the night had been watching the boy squirm beneath the weight of his regard.  Stiles was not an idiot after all – he could sense that the predator was out and stalking tonight.  His amber gaze, when it flickered to the wolf, was uncertain, wary, and held just the slightest hint of something more… longing. 

            Peter’s smile deepened.  Despite the aggravations of the night, the encounter with the poltergeist had provided one positive effect – it had allowed Peter to steal a glance into Stiles’ intriguing mind.  Dangerous, to be sure, as it had opened Peter’s own memories and emotions to the boy, even if only for an instant, but the reward had been well worth anything that might have slipped through.  The wolf had thought at first to sneak in a suggestion, just a little nudge to encourage the teenage crush on him that he was already aware of, but he had found this utterly unnecessary when the teen’s mind had turned toward him.  The heat he had felt there had left very little doubt of the strength of Stiles’ attraction, meaning that the game was more advanced than Peter had thought.  And yet, the boy was stubborn, he had felt that as well, which meant that it would be a very satisfying game watching Stiles’ defenses unravel.  An additional glimpse of the boy’s complex, intelligent mind, a peek into his memories and the delicious twist of guilt and need he had found there, were all bonuses affirming his interest in the teenager.  Stiles promised to be a very exceptional distraction indeed.

            The sound that the werewolf was searching for suddenly burst to the forefront of Peter’s senses, and the man’s eyes slit open, flaring with wolf-light as he located his favorite toy.  The boy seemed to be in the back of the house, away from the rooms that housed the party-goers and Peter’s smile faded slightly as he absorbed this fact coupled with the contented pulse of the boy’s heartbeat.  Why was the teen away from the others and why did he sound so at ease?

            Peter had earlier noticed a distraction to the boy that had nothing to do with the wolf’s attentions.  It was as if Stiles had been edgy and itching to make an escape.  The man hadn’t been able to make out where the teen’s nervous energy was directed – after all Stiles had been so adamant about attending the party and he was clearly enjoying himself.  So what more was Stiles looking for?  Did the boy perhaps have some sort of liaison planned?  He _had_ stressed the idea of the pretty girls who would be in attendance, and there were certainly plenty around.  In fact, Peter had even earlier observed the teenager chatting with a girl named Heather who seemed to be some sort of childhood friend from another school.

            As it had then, the thought of Stiles with such a partner elicited a strangely homicidal impulse within Peter, which he firmly squelched.  It was foolish, and it wouldn’t do to cause a scene here – he’d promised Lydia after all.  But that didn’t mean that he was going to allow his toy to be distracted by frivolities – not when Peter himself needed the distraction.

            Curious now, and feeling his control edging away again, Peter decided to find out what Stiles was up to.  The man rose from the stairs, regaining his feet in one smooth, graceful motion.  Lazily he descended to the party, sidestepping giggling and tipsy teenagers, and ducking beneath nylon spider webs and paper streamers.  He followed the siren call of Stiles’ heart through several rooms and down a hallway until he came to the doorway that opened into the kitchen.

            The room was empty except for the gangly teenager, who perched upon one of the countertops, a pilfered bowl of candy on his lap.  The blissful, if slightly guilty expression that the boy wore as he bit into a gooey chocolate and caramel candy bar told Peter all that he needed to know.  Here was the object of Stiles’ distracted mind – clearly the teen had been searching for the opportunity to slip away so that he might gorge upon a favorite treat, like any other child on Halloween.  It was a reminder to Peter that however complex the boy’s mind might be, there were still these wonderful quirks of childishness – currently demonstrated by the smear of chocolate just to the side of the boy’s mouth.

            A slow smirk grew on the wolf’s lips, and Peter made a spur of the moment decision – it was time to make the next move in their game.  After all, the boy had been a horrible tease tonight, and there was only so much a werewolf could take.  It was time to return the favor.

            “And here,” Peter suddenly spoke and Stiles almost fell off the countertop, clutching at his bowl of candy as if it was a life preserver and he was a drowning man at sea, “I thought it was the ladies you were most anticipating this evening, Stiles.”  Peter raked his eyes over the blushing boy.  “Now I know the truth.”

            Stiles glared at him.  “Don’t _do_ that,” the teen snapped. 

            Peter sauntered into the kitchen as if the irate words had been an invitation to enter.  He slowly stalked toward the boy as he devoured him with his eyes. Stiles’ long legs dangled before the lower cabinets.  One hand was wrapped around the bowl, the other clutched his candy bar.  The teen’s brow was lowered in annoyance, but the way his mouth was pursed betrayed a hint of his nervousness.  He was a delicious sight.  Peter smirked as he heard the tempo of Stiles’ heartbeat begin to increase beneath his gaze.

            “You know, Stiles,” he purred, drawing nearer.  “I’ve been thinking about that question you asked earlier.”  He was amused by the confusion that crossed the teen’s face.  “Trick or treat?” he reminded him.  The confusion cleared briefly, only to immediately deepen as the boy realized that he still didn’t understand what Peter was getting at.  The man came to a halt just in front of the teenager so that he brushed against the boy’s knees.  Stiles blinked and swallowed hard, clearly unnerved by the proximity, but made no move to pull away.

            “I’ve decided on treat,” Peter told the teen, gently taking the candy bowl from Stiles’ hand and placing it on the counter beside him.  The man allowed his fingers to trail briefly across the soft fur of the taunting tail that was draped on the counter beside Stiles.  The boy shivered, almost as if the tail truly was a part of him.  Then his brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to ask a question.  Peter stopped him by gesturing toward the chocolate on his face and saying, “You’ve got something, just there.”

            Automatically Stiles raised his hand toward the spot Peter had indicated, but before he could reach it, Peter moved with supernatural speed, catching hold of both wrists, stopping Stiles in mid-motion.  He leaned into the boy’s space, and with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue, Peter licked the chocolate from Stiles’ pale skin.  The teen froze, his heart literally skipping a beat in his shock.

            The act was over in a moment, and then Peter was stepping away from the teenager, Stiles’ half-eaten candy bar in his hand.  He took a calculated bite from the bar, his eyes locked with Stiles’ pupil-blown, amber gaze.  “Mmm,” he purred as he savored the sweet chocolate, licking a trail of caramel from his lips.  He was pleased to see Stile’s eyes track the path of his tongue.  “Thanks for the treat, Stiles.”

            He turned from the boy and sauntered back out of the kitchen, feeling suddenly more in control than he had since he’d first been faced with the Kate-poltergeist.  He counted slowly in his head, waiting for the expected reaction.  Behind him he could hear the sound of the teen’s heartbeat increasing rapidly, and then, after he’d reached a count of five, the explosion erupted.  “Fucking Creeper!”  Peter grinned and took another bite from the candy bar as things like, “werewolf cooties!” and “Derek, kill your uncle now!” floated down the hall.

            The wolf found Lydia just turning toward the corridor as he emerged into one of the party room.  The girl wore a faint frown as she caught some of the shouting traveling out from the kitchen.   She shot a glare that was part suspicion, part annoyance at Peter.  “What did you do?” she asked.

            The man shrugged, trying for an innocent look despite the smile dancing on his lips.

            Lydia’s eyes narrowed.  “What did we discuss earlier?”

            “I absolutely wasn’t getting anything dirty,” Peter promised earnestly.  “I was cleaning.”

            Lydia huffed in irritation, and pushed past him toward the kitchen.  Peter decided that it would probably be a good idea to leave before she returned.

            He met Derek and Isaac heading toward him as he made his way through the front of the house.  It was clear from the alpha’s expression that he could hear at least some of Stiles’ ranting.

            “Peter,” he growled warningly.

            “Nephew,” Peter acknowledged, raising his captured candy bar in a salute.

            Derek’s voice sounded too deep, the alpha simmering beneath the surface.  “I’ve already warned you.”  Clearly his nephew was displeased at the thought of Peter disobeying him.

            Peter put on his most innocent expression.  “I didn’t harm him,” he told Derek, his hand raised in a ‘scout’s honor’.

            Derek didn’t buy it for a second.  “Is there still blood under your nails?” he snapped.  “I know how he got those claw marks, Peter.”

            Peter stilled and met Derek’s gaze squarely.  Electric blue flickered in the depths of his eyes.  “Prove it,” he said in a soft voice.  It was almost a challenge.

            The alpha’s eyes flickered red and a low growl rumbled from his chest.  Beside them a drunken teenager blinked, looking between the two wolves.  “Woah, dudes!  Awesome effects,” he slurred out in an impressed tone.

            Derek’s gaze snapped to the boy, momentarily distracted from his ire, and Peter smiled.  The elder Hale wasn’t all that concerned with his nephew’s anger.  Stiles was far too intriguing a toy to let such a thing deter him.

            Peter pushed past the two younger wolves.  “Enjoy the party,” he called over his shoulder as he waved the candy bar in a casual farewell and disappeared into the crowd of party-goers.

***

            Isaac watched the older wolf depart, his brow furrowed in thought.  “So, earlier,” he finally said to Derek, “that _was_ Peter and Stiles flirting, right?”

            Derek let out a deep growl in the back of his throat, which Isaac took as an affirmative.

            “Has this been going on long?”  Isaac didn’t know how they’d all missed this.  It was _obvious_.  But then again, the pack didn’t usually socialize with Peter all that much.  The man was often a lurking presence in pack meetings, or he was off with Stiles doing research or training.  And okay, things suddenly became much clearer to Isaac.

            “Since he came back,” the alpha answered vaguely, still glowering in the direction his uncle had disappeared.

            “By which I take it you mean ‘since Peter came back from the dead’?”  Isaac interpreted.  “So Stiles and your creepy, undead uncle are flirting and you’re okay with it?” the beta questioned.  Clearly Derek had already been well aware of the situation before tonight.

            Derek turned glowing eyes on him.

            “Right, none of my business,” Isaac quickly agreed and darted from the alpha’s side, deciding that he was just going to go get lost somewhere in the party.  The teen had come to the conclusion that all of his friends were incredibly weird and he should really stop asking questions.  He didn’t actually want to know if something was going on between Stiles and Peter anyway.  In fact, there were definitely some things that he didn’t want to know, particularly if they involved “werewolf cooties”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear these things start in my head as little sniping conversations between Stiles and Peter and somehow turn into multi-chapter novellas by the time they're written down. My original notes on this story was all of one paragraph with the barebones of the opening conversation when Stiles knocked on the door and Peter answered, and the end scene with Peter finally answering the question. *sigh* Buckle your seatbelts, this is gonna be a long ride - there's massive Plot! poking about in my head.


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